Under the Yoke of Reverence

[Oneiro]

(( Solo
This story takes place five years before current times and is partly an elaboration of Rabyr's history, most notably of how he gained his geomancy skill. Also, if anyone's wondering about the posts being submitted so quickly after one another, it's because I typed the whole thing up in notepad, then copied/pasted here. ))

Although people often speculated that he lived for the hunt, Rabyr had to admit that being able to sleep as long as he wanted was a welcome pause from his obligations as a member of the hunting party. It went against a nomad's nature to not do anything, but doing nothing was sometimes needed, if only to offer a moment of reflection. Of course, such periods were few and far between; to merely survive in the harshness of Fallien's wastelands required a full day of hunting efforts and other work that left them no time spare. He looked over the contents of his sparsely furnished tent; a bed crafted from wickerwork, a collection of weapons, several crude grooming tools. It would appear spartan to any cityfolk, but for a nomad, his shelter was considered remarkably luxurious. His violet eyes scanned over the lethal blades stacked together at the end of his bed as he sat upon the wickerwork's edge. A sense of expectation twinkled within. He would spend today doing what any true hunter would do, if not committed to a hunt for food.

He would hunt for fun.

He rose from his raw sleepstead and stretched out his body, ropy muscles etched into his grey skin not because he was particularly strong, but because in the desert, nourishment was scarce and foul-tasting, and therefore only consumed for survival. There was no mirror in his tent - actually, there wasn't one in the entire camp, as far as he knew - but as during each morning, he couldn't help but mull over the anomalies in his physique. Both his eyes, his features, and his skin tone suggested a Drow heritage. As proof of the contrary, he did not share their frail, lithe body structure, their ability to see in darkness or to move stealthy and graceful by nature. He was a human, of that he was sure, but an extraordinary one, especially for a Fallien. His hair was messy but smooth, falling down in clustered strands around his head, shading much of his visage, but not hampering his vision as he looked down upon the pile of collected weapons he would use for the hunt today. A skinning knife, a light spear, and his own, trusted iron scimitar - which lay separate from the other weapons, to enunciate that its value to Rabyr far transcended that of the other tools of the trade. After glimpsing at the spearheads cluttered within the bunch, he noticed disgruntledly that most of them were in bad need of sharpening. He covered his body with a nomad's attire, consisting of many bandages and white cloth that gripped tightly around his musculature, before picking up the deteriorated arms and making his way out of his tent with a sigh of annoyance.

The outside greeted him with the familiar, scorching glare of the Fallien sun and the breezeless desolacy of the sands that the Mistshard clan had chosen to bivouac upon. A small oasis lay not so very far to the east, and the surrounding lands were rife with mostly harmless beasts that fit perfectly well within the nomads' diet. The encampment itself consisted of many tents like his own, some bigger, some smaller. He was one of few that did not share a tent with other clansmen. One particular tent immediately stood out from the crowd of weathered canvas domes, for its surface had been entirely painted with red coloring extract - intricate, tribal patterns ran from top to bottom. The tent that was home of the Mistshard leader - and currently vacant. The only reason it had been erected was because of its traditional location at the northernmost tip of the empty circle of sand that their tents surrounded. According to legend, the tradition had sprang from the belief that the north was a place where the sun would never reach - and therefore, where it could not blind the clan leader's judgment. For Rabyr, who was inherently less superstitious than most of his brethren, it was merely a landmark that made setting up the remainder of the tents a lot easier.

Not caring much for utility, the Mistshard clan possessed only a single whetting stone, positioned several yards in front of this leader's tent. This often led to inconvenience among hunters, who, above all, raced for its services as soon as the tools of their trade showed the remotest sign of decline, and Rabyr was no exception. It was therefore not without a wheeze of exasperation that he came to a halt upon viewing who had claimed the stone for herself at this early time of day. The uncharacteristic smoothness of her raven curls did not allow for addling; this was Sychia, one of the greater childhood prodigies whose efforts had overshadowed his in each and every aspect ever since the two of them had been born. Many speculated that if they were to re-elect a leader, several years from now, Sychia would stand a good chance of making it to that rank. After all, Fallien leaders were always women, and from amongst his kin, Sychia was the most talented female Rabyr knew. He envied her skill, he could not stand her pride, and perhaps he was also slightly in love with her - though he would deny such a claim in any situation.

"Morning, Drow boy," she started as he approached her from behind, though as far as Rabyr knew, she hadn't even looked over her shoulder. "No turban 'round that silky face, today?" There was something jagged and rough to her voice, a perfect feature in any instance wherein she was trying to insult another nomad. Which was about eighteen hours a day; the remainder she spent sleeping or eating.

"Tongue's still as sharp as a scorpion's pincers, I hear," Rabyr grumbled a jab in response as he sat on the other side of the whetting wheel, the heat of the sands tangible even through the isolating layer of cloth he wore. "Too bad you're not just as willing to grab males with it." She laughed, jeering.

"My my, what a daring advance," she perfectly emulated a young seamstress, all the while only barely containing the mockery in her voice. "It almost sounds like you're looking for a woman to carry your namesake!" And he was daring? Her teasing bordered on grave insult; nomads did not produce an heir until they had contributed to the clan's hunt for at least ten years. Even if one wished so, he or she would have never found a willing partner. But he had known Sychia for a very long time, and he was more than used to these kinds of insinuations - he'd thrown enough at her in the past, as well, though as with just about everything else, she easily outmatched him in that department, too.

"And it almost sounds like you are volunteering," he let himself be lured into her trap with a smirk. She laughed even harder, almost losing her focus and letting the dagger she was sharpening slip down the side of the wheel. Deep dimples appeared in her cheeks.

"Not in a thousand years, greyskin," she spoke with brutal honesty, through her chortling. "Skills, looks, knowledge, judgment... As a woman, I'm so far above you, I can't even see you." He had expected this reaction - it had long since stopped hurting that part deep inside of him.

"Well, try looking who's in front of you instead of watching what happens behind you, then," he merrily continued teasing away. Nowadays, doing so was almost like competition to them. They even congratulated each other at times when a particularly well-placed remark fell between them - usually at his humiliation, though there had been a few occasions where he'd left her speechless - moments he still cherished in the back of his mind. She'd stopped laughing, but the grin remained plastered to that face of dark chocolate. She was about to make another snappy retort when they both heard a pair of feet running onto the central square. They rose immediately, and their grins were gone, hands upon their weapons. A nomad never ran unless there was danger, or an urgent message to deliver. When there was no sign of hostility within five seconds of the clansman's arrival, Rabyr assumed that it was the latter, and with Sychia, he walked towards the tribesman in steady pace. He recognized the inexperienced face beneath the turban as Fhell, the youngest of the four hunters that had set out to the southern hunting grounds, today. He was surprised to say that the younger nomad's features did not betray a baneful message. Instead, he seemed pleased - jubilant even; a rare thing indeed amongst their people.

"Why the hurry, Fhell?" Sychia demanded, visibly annoyed at having been alerted for no other apparent reason than to look at this hunter's face, beaming.

"Long story to tell," the younger hunter's voice brabbled, far too fast and unnaturally avid. "During the hunt, me and the others were surprised by a sand drake. I thought we were goners, but then this man showed up. A nomad, but not a normal hunter. He can..." the stream of words came to an unexpected halt, as though Fhell could not find the words to describe what had happened. "What's important, he saved us," he concluded simply. "For that, we have invited him to stay with us, share our drink and food, as tradition commands us." Rabyr and Sychia looked at each other, bewildered by the onslaught of information about this stranger that had allegedly rescued their hunters from a grisly demise. "He should be arriving shortly - I was merely gathering a suitable amount of Mistshards to welcome him."

Rabyr nodded. "Lead the way," he stated shortly. He would have given much to first hear the whole story, but not providing a proper welcome to a fellow nomad would be perceived as a grave affront. Disregarding such trivialities had even led to clan wars in the past. Those many details about the rescue, which Fhell could only describe as 'magnificent' as they walked out of the circle of tents, towards the great group of nomads that had already assembled on the edge of the encampment, would have to be told of later. He and Sychia had only just taken up their places in the crowd when Fhell shouted for attention and pointed to the southwest, where four others were steadily approaching the camp, running despite the desert heat and nomad customs. He recognized the tread of the three other hunters that had accompanied Fhell this morning. As the hunting party dropped its pace, close enough for faces to be distinguished, Rabyr let his violet orbs slide over the fourth nomad that was amongst them.

[Oneiro]

Rabyr disliked the stranger the moment he laid eyes on him. He was dressed like any other nomad, but he was not wearing a turban, allowing outsiders clear sight at his tanned face. His hair was black, messy, and plentiful, covering his head, his jaws, chin, and upper lip in thick bushes bound in braids here and there, knittings of hair that were kept together at the end by small, golden rings. Although numerous scars surrounded his weasely, onyx eyes, his walk was princely and delicate. And, nodoubtedly to distinguish him from other nomads, no finger on his hand was left without some kind of golden ornament, the majority of them inlaid with the finest gems. He was a nomad, yes - in spite of his attempt to appear wealthy and influential, his eyes had that hardness that only the desert could brew within a man - but an awfully pampered one. There was even a large, round plate of gold fastened to the front of his belt. Within it stood engraved a picture of what could either be a many-petalled flower or an awfully serrated sun.

"Good warriors of the Mistshard clan, allow me to bestow the gift of water upon your grounds." His voice was deep and resonated with an ephemeral, persuasive sweetness. Even though he did not trust the newcomer as far as he could throw him, Rabyr, too, fell prey to the allure in his formal introduction. Now it was beyond doubt that the man was a part of their people, albeit from a different clan: dripping water upon another tribe's grounds was a very official, rigid way of showing your respect, a handshake offered not so much in friendship as in submission. Despite the stranger's knowledge of nomad customs, however, the violet-eyed hunter could not discern any clues upon his attire that suggested a lineage he knew of. Still, although the presence of the jewelled man unnerved him, he moved in with the rest of his tribe as they stepped closer, facing him as a union of curious eyes. He smiled at them. In Rabyr's opinion, even a cobra's stare was more honorable.

"My name is Chechel, and I come from regions far to the south, where the honorable Kehlat clan resides," the stranger spoke, turning up the volume of his voice now that he had so many ears to fill with his story. Many looks were interchanged, though few were as grave as they should be, according to Rabyr. Those who knew about the different clans were usually also remotely knowledgeable about the trouble that the Kehlat clan had caused for Fallien in the years of yore - they worship a different Goddess than Suravani, for the Earth Mother's sake! Still, he remained silent. Chechel had shown no open signs of hostility, and it would be a violation of the nomad code of hospitality to refuse to listen to his story. Every outsider had the opportunity to state his purpose for venturing into the lethal embrace of the Fallien desert. Amongst nomads, this rule went even further: if a wanderer from a different clan came across another nomad's camp, he could expect to be provided with food, water and shelter for at least three days. Even a visitor as controversial as a Kehlat. He was very curious about Chechel's reason, though, for being so far north from his own clan's grounds.

"... and as an Emissary of Mitra, I travel around Fallien to bring the word of the True Goddess, the Sun Goddess." Rabyr had refocused upon the monologue just in time to hear his pending question answered. A nauseating feeling rose up from his stomach as Chechel continued to preach his duty in the name of his Goddess, not once even mentioning the name of the Goddess that any self-respecting Fallien was supposed to worship, Suravani. During his assignments peddling goods from his encampment to Irrakam and back, Rabyr had heard more than enough rumors about the Cult of Mitra to despise them. They would cast the entirety of Fallien into civil war, merely to spread their own religion over the continent. To Rabyr, their zealous endeavor seemed even more useless than to others - he was not overly religious at heart, unlike much of the other clansmen. He eyed Chechel, who was now gesturing wildly with both arms as he tried to give a vague explanation of how the Sun Goddess had a hand in everything good that had ever happened to Fallien. Unsurprisingly, it was not long before he ran out of material.

"What about the Earth Mother? She resigned?" came a gruff, overly cynical voice from the left side of the crowd. Rabyr struggled to withhold a chuckle, but he needn't have, for others around him were laughing out loud. As personal bodyguard of the tribe leader, Kolan hated change, and anything that went against the leader's or the shaman's will, in his book, should be booted from the clan as quickly as possible. The introduction of a new Goddess to replace Suravani surely fell into that category. Chechel's eyes turned towards the humongous nomad that had humiliated him. Rabyr could see that unfortunately, the Emissary, too, was not without support. Particularly the three hunters that he had allegedly saved from a drake seemed to have been enthralled by his words, and they were watching Kolan with cold contempt. Fools.

"Suravani?" Chechel repeated while his eyes profferred an unpleasant twinkle and his thin lips curled into a grimace. "My dear man, have you not heard? I will not refute that Suravani is a Goddess, but in both power and generosity, Mitra is far, far beyond her." The crowd gasped at the bold statement, and Rabyr could not believe that any nomad could utter such blasphemy, especially when surrounded by followers of what they considered the one, true Goddess. But worst of all, there were Mistshards who seemed to agree with what this false cleric was asserting! Rabyr could think of nothing to counter the preposterous statement, despite its ridiculous nature. Kolan seemed somewhat taken aback by the lack of reaction from his fellow tribesmen.

"You see?" Chechel asked in emphatic rhetoric. "Suravani's time... is over."

"Is that so?" came a voice from the back of the crowd.

[Oneiro]

"I can't help but remember that Mitra has long since worn her welcome on the lands of the Fallien," the interrupter continued, reaping multiple nods of agreement from those within the crowd who knew the barest bit about their continent's lore, though Chechel's supporters shook their head in silent disagreement. Rabyr turned around, standing on his toes to look over his companions, or to at least send the one that had intruded upon Chechel's impudent speech a glance of genuine gratefulness. From a solitary tent at the end of their encampment, Mother Layareh came trudging in friendly fashion. Despite her amicable appearance - she was an old lady, with a slightly bentover gait, always wearing clothes and turbans in any conceivable color, instead of the usual white - she breathed an almost tangible power. Rabyr had never witnessed her prowess as a shaman before, and judging from the perplexed expressions of Sychia beside him and his surrounding brethren, there was no one currently present who ever had.

They moved aside with due respect as the old woman shuffled closer, her tattered yellow robe trailing in the sand behind her, her unseeing eyes somehow finding their way to Chechel's malevolent orbs. The Emissary did not speak until she had come to a halt; Rabyr was grimly satisfied that despite the faith in his Sun Goddess, he too was impressed by the Mistshard shaman's invisible show of force. He turned away from the three men he had saved from the sand drake's clutches to face her fully, and Rabyr could see that he was sizing her up, wondering how much of her mystical strength she was showing and how much of it still lay in hiding beneath that misleading visage of friendliness. In one of the darker, more sadistic corners of his mind, Rabyr suddenly wished that Chechel would give them a reason, any reason, to mangle him and leave him for dead on the nearest dune. Although that would probably remain a wish, it was good to see that the royal stature the stranger tried to maintain quickly faded under the Mother's blind, yet stern glare.

"It is unfortunate that once again, the blind followers of Suravani must bring the unfortunate accidents and coincidence of history into the equation," the charismatic Emissary blamed her with a tone of feigned regret. "What happened in the past has been much to the Sun Goddess's grieving. She has been discredited, deposed, and dessicated by the jaws of puny mortals who would do anything to stay in power." His voice returned from a slithering assault at the old shaman to an echoing sonata, meant for the ears of all tribesmen assembled. "But the Sun Goddess Mitra is kind. She is willing to forgive those beneath the Jya's oppression, those who did not know the evil they unknowingly wrought..."

"The Mistshard is beneath no Jya! The only word we heed is Suravani's!" Rabyr could vaguely recognize Sychia's fiery voice, and he immediately joined in with the cheering and defiant shouts that ensued after the declaration of freedom. Chechel's grip visibly weakened, even amongst the three that his powers had saved from injury or worse. Still, he did not seem fazed by the clan's protests. A second later, he knew why. With two simple claps of his hands, as though he were amicably requesting attention in a group of small children, an invisible veil of silence came over him. The foreign force crawled inside his lungs, paralyzed his vocal chords. Then, the grip tightened, and it became harder and harder to breathe. Rabyr could see one of the younger hunters staggering beneath the weight of the spell, and it was not long before he himself felt the need to sit down, to ameliorate the unseen force that was pressing him towards the earth. He cast his eyes up at Mitra's Emissary, who was granting them a grin that showed exactly who was in control. But then, the feeling of pressure was gone, and the nomads that had given in to Chechel's spell stood back up and faced the preacher, their eyes now full of anger, but also - to Rabyr's regret - fear of having to go through the spell again.

"I'm afraid I cannot allow you to harm the children of the Earth Goddess," Mother Layareh asserted serenely as Chechel looked around, dazzled by the fact that his binding incantation had vanished into thin air. She placed the hand she'd used to gesture Mitra's spell away back upon her trusty, wooden walking stick. The Emissary seemed to combust with anger; his face was contorted in an expression of withheld fury, and his beard and moustache trembled with every word he spoke. He looked the imperturbable shaman in the eye.

"Fine," he gnawed at her, before turning back to the horde of disbelieving nomads, who slowly began to form a circle around Mother Layareh and Mitra's Emissary. "If you require proof of Mitra's supremacy, then so be it! I shall wipe your shaman from the face of the desert, and then, yes then my dear Mistshards, you will finally see the weakness of the Earth Goddess you so adore!" He moved to dueling distance with Mother Layareh, who had remained completely motionless throughout his speech; her frown deepened, that was all. "Prepare now for a battle not between humans, but between Gods, blinded woman!" Still, no reaction. The tribe held its breath as seconds passed without motion on either Chechel's or Layareh's side. Then it started.

They collided with inhuman speed, and even Rabyr, as a trained hunter, had trouble following their movements. He watched open-mouthed, incredulous at the combat skill and speed that both the Emissary and their shaman were exhibiting. Both wielded no visible weapons, but as they moved particularly close to his section of the crowd, Rabyr could feel ghoosebumps all over his body, and his knees trembled under the weight of power that the combatants exuded. It was primarily Chechel who was on the offensive; he threw punches and kicks with swiftness reminiscent of a viper's bite, but Mother Layareh dodged his strikes almost effortlessly, her hands held still behind her back, though she was no longer smiling. Every now and then, she caught him with a kick to the chest or the head, but this did not seem to faze the Emissary, who simply took the blow and then resumed his hopeless assault. At this rate, the fight could go on forever. It appeared that both combatants realized that as well, for after several minutes, they landed in their starting positions, a safe distance away from each other, whipping up sand in every which way. Both were breathing a little faster than normally, but otherwise, they were equally unscathed.

"It seems false beliefs do give you strength, woman," Chechel spoke grimly, "but that will not be enough to overcome true faith!"

Rabyr felt the sudden need to shout a warning, though he did not know exactly what for. It was something in the Emissary's tone - a tinge of triumph that was entirely out of place in the current deadlock. Chechel smiled as he retrieved what appeared to be a golden chain from around his neck. As Mother Layareh looked on, not understanding but alert for signs of danger, he took the medallion that hung from the neckpiece in the fingers of one hand, while his other reached out towards the nomads he had saved from the drake - those who were the most liable to choose Mitra over Suravani as their Goddess. The surrounding crowd held its breath as a soft sound of unnatural humming began to envelop the area.

"Wun l'kaas d'Mitra, colnbluth, dos orn tlu zho'aminth!" Although Rabyr could not understand the echoing chant, the language used sounded strangely familiar. But he was given no time to ponder the cognition, for the centre of Chechel's amulet had lit up with an unearthly shine, fiercer than the fiercest desert sun, forcing him to look away from the inside of the circle, to shield his eyes from damage. With a sound of storm raging through the sands, the battlefield was drowned in a blast of light. When it subsided and everyone reopened their eyes, the only one left within the circle was Chechel. Not the faintest trail of Mother Layareh remained, as though she had literally been swallowed by the desert. Denial raged through every fiber of his being. This could not be. Surely, Mother Layareh would emerge from out of nowhere and resume the fight. Side by side with his equally stricken tribesmen, Rabyr stood with hope in vain.

Minutes of silent disbelief passed, but the Mistshard shaman did not return.

In the name of Mitra, outsider, you will be forgotten!

[Oneiro]

"Hail Mitra!"

The cry was all the more painful because it had rolled from the tongue of one of his fellow hunters. Again and again, the name of Chechel's Goddess resounded within the crowd, and each consecutive time, more voices joined the chant. Rabyr knew that this reaction could have been expected: in the eyes of the superstitious, the victory of one Emissary over another was clearly a sign of superiority of one Goddess over the other - the logic of fanatics, and of fools, yet one that was effective and persistent. Still, it pained him that his companions were so easily swayed, as though they had been intimidated by Chechel's show of force, like cowards, the mere thought of which made him feel sick. He did not join the cries of converted worship; instead, he cautiously eyed the black-haired Emissary that looked at the crowd in joy, guiding their hands up to the heavens while shouting joy in Mitra's name. When the onyx eyes came across the motionless greyskin in the middle of the crowd, he frowned somewhat, and his brow showed equal furrows when his gaze crossed Sychia, who was fuming with rage at the Mistshards surrounding her.

"Now, now!" Chechel did a vain attempt to calm the converted horde, though Rabyr could see that his eyes were glittering with malign satisfaction. "Let us not cheer over the violence that it must sometimes come to in order to deal with disbelievers!" But it was little more than more fuel on the fire of the tribesmen's superstitious shouts, and Rabyr could see that the bejeweled Emissary was enjoying every moment, every echo of his Goddess's name that resounded off the hollow deerskins of the tents surrounding the village centre. Rabyr could not tell how long he stood there, in the middle of a crowd that had traded one god for the other without as much as the blink of an eye. His eyes crossed Sychia, whose posture mirrored his own defeated, confused image. There was little they could do. If the majority of tribesmen wished to accept Mitra as a new Goddess, then any disparaging comment they made would only lead to accusations of troublemaking, of disturbing the peace. He looked down at the sand, and he sighed. At the moment, the culture of the Mistshard felt foreign to him, even though he was part of them by blood.

"Listen to me, good people of the Mistshard clan," Chechel's voice bellowed as the cries of renewed worship died down. "I will not require of any of you that you cease to worship Suravani - the Earth Goddess is a Goddess in her own right. But I do hope that I have made clear that Mitra is superior in both strength and goodwill - as she personally smites those who wish to dethrone her, so she helps those who choose her as a Goddess above all others!" Cheers, once more. Rabyr felt close to vomiting. These kinds of politics were vileness that he had thus far only experienced during his short stays in Irrakam, and even there, his spirit had been fiercely against the notion that humans could be so snake-like in their lust for power. As he stood there before them, the Kehlat indeed appeared the great benefactor, the one that had freed them from Suravani's yoke and had shown them the light, almost literally, of Mitra. Rabyr had no doubt that this light would also involve him becoming wealthy over their backs - all to appease the great Goddess, of course. Rabyr turned around and walked away, roughly pushing his way through the back of the crowd. They payed him no attention. With sadness, Rabyr saw how each of their fates were locked to the Emissary's whim.

As he pushed the final nomad away, he noticed that several yards to the side, another figure had made its way out of the embrace of the frenetic clansmen - he looked into her eyes. She seemed truly intent on murdering the black-haired man that had swayed her kin. Rabyr knew that as a child, she had spent much time with Layareh, so not only must the loss of the old shaman have weighed heavily upon her soul, this rejection of Suravani would hit her harder than any. Her youth had likely been filled with stories about the Earth Goddess and her benevolence, and though Rabyr simply saw the situation as a deterioration of their daily life, to Sychia, Chechel's bold announcement was like a declaration of war. Still, she seemed to be in control of her aggression, for when he tried to approach her, she shook her head firmly, implying that they should not be seen together. As two of the few that had visibly had doubts about Mitra's reign, that would quickly put them under Chechel's suspicion.

He could tell she was planning something. With an innoticeable nod, he turned the other way, walking away from the abhorrent scene and entering his tent with the ominous feeling that worse lay yet in store. He fell down upon the wickerwork of his sleepstead, and closed his eyes. He did not care whether their Goddess would be called Mitra or Suravani, but he liked the lifestyle of Suravani's time far more than the veritable dictatorship that Chechel would nodoubtedly assume.

[Oneiro]

One week later

The past few days had been nothing short of hellish. Chechel, with the support of about two thirds of the clan, had managed to crown himself the new Mistshard leader. The idiocy! The disrepect towards that age-old tradition! A man in the leader's tent? Had he suggested it ten minutes before Chechel's arrival, Rabyr was sure that he would have been proclaimed a fool. And yet, with the victory of this pompous Kehlat over a shaman that most of them had loved and obeyed since they had been infants, they had relinquished half of their traditions, and horribly deformed the remaining half. Sychia might not have been able to contain her anger over such endeavors previously, but as she walked beside her grey-skinned fellow-in-denial, she seemed to be the one most in control of her senses, while Rabyr was absolutely not. His eyes glittered with fury whenever he saw another Mistshard utter a prayer in Mitra's name, or incline his head in subservience whenever that insufferable Kehlat passed by. Only when Sychia tugged forcefully at the sleeve of his white clothing had he stopped ranting at one of the youngest hunters of the hunting party, whom had had the guts to assert that all of them had better forget Suravani completely, in order to reap the benefits of worshipping Mitra more effectively.

"You need to get a hold of yourself," Sychia hacked away at him in whispered reprimand as they walked away from the youngster, toward the centre of the village square, where things were unusually crowded for the time of day - most likely because of the large block of brown-yellow sandstone that had suddenly appeared there. "What if that overblown crabhumper decides you're too much of a troublemaker? I can assure you that he's looking for any, any opportunity to get rid of the both of us. So keep your quiet!" She reinforced the command with a short punch to his side. Rabyr grumbled, though he was grimly satisfied with the creative words she used to refer to Chechel. In accordance with her suggestion, the violet-eyed hunter managed to keep his mouth closed until they reached the crowd of people surrounding the ill-at-place boulder upon the square. Rabyr frowned as they made their way to the inner circle of people surrounding the block. He heard rhythmic ticks of steel against rock, and the occasional scraping as part of the boulder crumbled and fell down to the soil.

It was as though his conversation with Sychia had never taken place. When he saw those five young men, sweating and panting as they gave the bulk of the sandstone a slightly human form, rage reignited within his spirit with redoubled strength. Before Sychia could do anything to stop him, he had stepped forward and grabbed a particularly scrawny, dark-skinned sculptor by the shoulder, pulling him backwards and turning his shoulder around, so that he could look the man in the eye.

"What in the name of Suravani is going on here?" he slithered with barely contained rage. The crowd seemed disturbed at what used to be one of the most common Mistshard expressions, involving the Earth Mother's name. It only served to fuel the fury that had sparked inside his skull upon viewing Chechel's newest project. Sychia was poking into his back, urgently, but he pretended not to feel it. This was too much.

"Th-this is a statue, Greyskin," the man answered, stammering at first, then gaining in confidence as he noticed that the crowd was definitely not on Rabyr's side. "A statue to honor the revered Sun Goddess, Mitra, and to..." His words were stymied by the horrid sound of his nose breaking under the force of the greyskin's fist. Murderous intent gleamed through the violet of his eyes as Rabyr let loose all the frustration that had accumulated inside him for the past few days. He could hear Sychia's admonishing screams in the background, but it was too late. Even as the artificer fell to the ground, the hunter caught him with several kicks to defenseless ribs. Two figures broke loose from the crowd to restrain him, but he struggled as though his life depended on it. The fact that the majority of the crowd did not know what side to choose empowered him; all was not lost for Suravani. As more and more of Chechel's more loyal followers encroached upon him and started kicking his downed frame into the sand, he screamed through the battering, not because he believed in her, but in simple defiance of Chechel's zeal.

"Hail Suravani!"

Then, the world blacked out.

[Oneiro]

When he awakened, nonexistent colors still danced in front of his eyes in dazzling patterns. He felt nauseous, but two iron clamps around his wrists refused him the comfort of lying down. Instead, he hung limply from the prisoner's pole. It was a large, wooden column with chains left and right, a device often used for the interrogation of enemies in times of war - times not so long past. Nonsurprisingly, it, like so many others of the Mistshard clan's possessions, had found its way to Emissary Chechel's new tent. Casting a dizzied glance over the unlit furniture, he could vaguely distinguish some of the tribe's most intricate glasswork in one corner, and a strange, wooden carving of what was apparently a depiction of Mitra in the other. Even captured in wood, her face, however beautiful, breathed cruelty and oppression, leaving Rabyr to wonder how anyone could possibly see her as a Goddess they wished to worship.

His gaze quickly steadied, and soon, he could make out Chechel's frame within the shadows. His back was turned to him, and nothing in his posture or actions showed that he was aware of the battered nomad hanging from the pole behind him. Judging from the scribbling sounds that pervaded the silence of the room, he was hurriedly jotting down a message on a piece of parchment. Had he been able to, the young hunter would have driven a sharp object straight through the man's lungs, right here and now. During his time in Irrakam, he had not understood how people could hate each other so much, but if his current feeling was any indication, his mind was not such a long way of proferring an identical disposition regarding the Emissary in front of him.

Every part of him felt bruised and stiff. He wondered how long he had been unconscious - his mouth was parched, and he was slightly hungry, which meant that he had been out for at least half a day. Had he been hanging here the entire time, a toy for Chechel to torture as he pleased, away from the Sun-blinded eyes of his other clansmen? Then again, his body showed no signs of damage apart from the beating he'd received upon intruding upon the construction of Mitra's new statue. More hypothetical situations raced through his head, and it took a while before he noticed that the Emissary had turned around, and was eyeing him with a mixture of haughty disdain and curiosity, like a child wondering what to do next to that insect he had managed to trap inside his glass jar.

"I understand that you've been stirring up trouble against the Sun Goddess, hunter Oneiro," he started out, and his voice was like sweet poison, a joy to hear but incredibly volatile. "Now that won't do, that won't do at all..." his voice trailed away, and he shook his head, as though he were extremely disappointed. Through it all, Rabyr felt rather insulted, but he did not respond - his lip was swollen, and even grinding his teeth hurt quite badly. Chechel did not seem to be expecting any kind of argument from him, anyhow. I took a while before the Emissary started speaking once more, his voice soft, and riddled with schemes. "You see, Oneiro, it's easy to convince a superstitious bunch like your Mistshard brethren that Mitra rules all, but it is even easier to sway them back to their original patterns. Nostalgia, seeing error in their ways. I know that you and the girl see through me, and I'm afraid I cannot allow you to sow any further seeds of doubt. Fortunately, this ruckus you've caused has given me the perfect opportunity to deal with you."

He moved his hand towards his neck, and retrieved the eerie pendant from beneath his clothing. Even in the darkness of the tent, the golden sun gleamed fiercely inside the medallion. Rabyr was overcome by a wave of panic. Was he about to suffer the same fate as Mother Layareh? Was the punishment for simply stating one's opinion that severe? Or had Sychia been right, and was Chechel systematically routing the few that silently opposed his rule? He looked the Emissary in the face, and saw an unpleasant smirk forming between the beard and moustache. His black eyes twinkled, as though he were enjoying this, even more than becoming a dictator through sheer counterfeit. He placed his spindly hand on Rabyr's forehead, the palm touching his forehead while the golden rings cradled his turban. An awkward vibration was sent through his entire body as Chechel whispered the words he had heard before, and which he feared, though he did not know what their meaning was.

"Wun l'kaas d'Mitra, colnbluth, dos orn tlu zho'aminth." Rabyr's mind was left bewildered. Absolutely nothing had happened, yet he was certain that the words Chechel had uttered had been the same as the ones he had used to make Layareh disappeard with. Had the spell backfired? He looked up. Chechel's smile remained - apparently, everything had gone as planned. Confounded to the depths of his being, he was caught unawares as Chechel hit him on the temple, causing him to black out in pain momentarily.

When he woke up from his fist-induced sleep, he was lying outside, in the middle of the village centre, next to the half-finished statue that lay at the root of his current predicament. He had an incredible headache, and the residue of the beating of this morning still presented itself in the form of a dull aching in his limbs, but apart from those remnants of physical harm, he felt completely fine. It only added to his confusion. The same spell that had wiped Layareh away from the face of Fallien had had no effect whatsoever on him, and judging from the lack of chains around his arms and legs, he was free to go where he pleased. He rose from the sand and looked at the sky, which glew an ominous orange as the sun had reached halfway past the horizon, to make place for the nightly cold. He'd been lying here for quite a while. Rabyr wondered why no one had woken him up. Sure, he'd proven himself an enemy of Mitra, but they could have at least given him a kick or so to remind him of getting out of the way...

The village centre was completely deserted. Most nomads were inside their tents, preparing for a good night's sleep, to awaken and resume their toil early the next morning. He patted the sand out of his clothing as he walked towards the tent he knew to be Sychia's. Although it was generally unaccepted to enter a woman's tent without express invitation, Rabyr reasoned that today's strange happenings warranted an unannounced visit. They were on the same side, at least, even if her approach to resistance was a little more passive than his own. He softly swiped the canvas of Sychia's habitat aside and slipped inside. She was there, alone - she, too, had a tent to call her own. Like his, the interior was rather spartan here as well, consisting of only a bed, a wickerwork chair which she now sat upon, and small weapon rack in the far corner. Her back was turned towards him, but knowing her, she probably knew he was there the moment he'd set foot in her domain; her senses were sharp as an eagle's.

"Sychia, you won't believe what happened today..." he started out rather lamely, but then again, she probably really wouldn't believe it. As he had expected, she was not startled at all. She still sat there, bent over what seemed like a regular hunting sword, checking it for dents and scratches in the light of a nearby lamp, a small candle surrounded by glasswork. The air was heavy with the smell of the chitinous oil that the mechanism used to keep its fire alight. He waited for several seconds, but no reaction came. Rabyr became slightly worried. Was she angry that he'd not heeded her warning, this morning?

"Sychia?"

No answer.

"Look, Sych," he started, irritation now sounding through his voice, "I know I made a mistake back there, and I payed for it by getting my head kicked into my chest, so can you please listen to me? Chechel put a spell on me, and I don't know what it did, and..." he stopped, for Sychia stood from her wickerwork seat, and turned around. Only then did Rabyr realize there was something very wrong about the situation; she did not look him in the eye. Her eyes seemed to be somewhere at his chest, or more likely, beyond. He blinked in confusion as she stepped forward slowly.

"Where in Suravani's name are you, Drow-boy?" she mumbled in an exasperated whisper, and she walked right through him.

In the name of Mitra, outsider, you will be forgotten.

[Oneiro]

This was a nightmare. It had to be. How could Chechel's power be such that he could cast him out of his entire clan's perception, rip him out of their lives? Did Mitra then truly exist? Was her power, her will to harm those who stood against her, so strong? He was sitting in the sand several yards to the west of the encampment. Almost an hour had passed since Sychia had passed through him as though he were a ghost, and night was steadily casting its starry veil over the desert, but Rabyr still could not quite grasp what had happened. When Chechel had spoken those strange words, and the medallion had lit up for less than a second, he had not felt anything special. And yet, somehow, the spell had made it so that he was entirely inexistent to anyone he knew. He had shouted, but no one had heard him. He had tried to punch Fhell in the back of his head, but his arm had gone straight through the man's body. In the end, he had resorted to kicking up sand in the middle of the village square, but apart from a few perplexed gazes from his peers, none had come to investigate the sourceless drift.

Hopelessness had overthrown his usual calm, and had persisted until this very moment, now that he was too tired to try anything. He wished he had been taught to read and write during his youth - at least he would have been able to communicate with the people who would believe him. As things stood now, Chechel had effectively cut him off from the others, and as such had taken away his ability to 'make trouble', as he called it. Sure, he had tried to find the Emissary once he had discovered about this horrid affliction he was under, but he had not been able to enter the man's tent anymore, and he was nowhere to be seen outside. He sighed, and a tear ran out of the corner of his eye. It wouldn't have been of much use anyway. If anything, Chechel would have laughed at him, perhaps hit him some more, or cast an even more horrible spell - although he had to admit that at the moment, few things, even death, seemed worse than never being able to be part of the Mistshard clan again. He rose to his feet. He had to do something, anything. Slowly, he began walking away from the village. He did not look back. It felt as though he were relinquishing a trusted friend to the care of a scorpion pit. After several steps, the tears came freely, and he made no attempt to stop them.

Time became wholly unimportant as he trudged onward. The image of unchanging, eternal sand soothed much of his sorrow, allowing him to fasten his energy to raw anger. He looked over his shoulder; the encampment was still visible, but seemed small and insignificant at this distance, consisting of a bunch of darker shadows in a dark night skyline. He would return there, and he would make Chechel pay for what he had done. Even if it took him the rest of his life to become as strong as Mitra's hated cleric, he would overthrow that man and his false beliefs. It was the first time in his life that he had ever felt the need for vengeance. Images that put most menial methods of torture to shame brightened the bitter hunter's spirit as he moved onward. Caught up in gory imagination, he could only narrowly avoid stumbling into a fire that had suddenly appeared in his path. Perplexed, he looked around. A campfire, in the middle of the Fallien desert? Impossible. Nothing that lived here required fire to survive, for the simple reason that there was no fuel to make any fire with.

"Come now, young hunter Oneiro," he heard a familiar voice from the other side of the campfire. "I don't think it's too prudent to step on an old lady's campfire?" His violet orbs gushed with amazement as he recognized Mother Layareh's hunched frame through the flames. She was sitting on a large block of sandstone, and her expression was without worry and friendly as ever. He was baffled. How could he be seeing her, if she'd been put under the same spell as he? And how could she know it was him? I'm invisible, and she's blind, for Suravani's sake! he thought, his mind searching for a logical answer and failing miserably. In the background, Layareh snickered.

"You by far overestimate our new friend's power," she commented, genuinely amused, as though she could read his thoughts. "Yes, he was able to banish us from the minds, eyes, and ears of the village, but not very much more than that. Had I been aware of the power he wielded, it would not have even come to this..."

Rabyr could only nod as he heaved himself up from the sand. Part of his leg had been scorched by the ashes of the fire, which - as he could see now - was dancing freely on the sand, without wood or coal to support it. The old shaman gestured toward the stone in front of her own. Rabyr, at a loss for words, obediently walked around the fire and placed himself atop the cold boulder. Orange light flickered over Layareh's face, deepening the creases in her skin, making her appear much older than she already was, and Rabyr felt a sudden jolt of great admiration for her ability to remain so unconcerned during this time of crisis.

"But..." he started out weakly. "But why haven't you returned, then? Surely there's something you can do, even if invisible?"

The smile faded from Layareh's lips. "At the moment, he's using more powerful magic to keep me at bay than the one that he used to banish you and me. I cannot come within three hundred yards of the village - believe me, I have tried, but the ward he put around the village has been placed there through an intricate ritual. I might outweigh him in terms of raw power, but I believe that our young Kehlat was bright enough to request a greater force to keep me at bay."

"But..."

Again, she interrupted him. Could she really read thoughts? "Why you, then, could move freely within the camp after he put the spell on you?" She chuckled. "I think he did not believe you much of a threat - I doubt he will go through the trouble of setting up another ward, just for you. A mistake, if you ask me, but then again, that depends on what you're willing to do about the situation, doesn't it?"

Though she spoke very calmly, Rabyr felt as though he was being rallied for a great battle. Still, in this case, it was a battle that both his body and his soul wished to fight, even if the price to pay for defeat was death. Her question also made him feel oddly praised, as though he was the one to make the difference, to defeat Chechel, even though deep inside he was certain that even with twenty years of training, the Kehlat would still outmatch him, with that wretched pendant of his.

"I'm willing to do... anything... to get that vile, slithering..." the insults lasted for a while, and the words came in shocks of colorful verbage. Layareh did not interrupt him. It appeared as though that smile would never go away. It was a calming thought, in some ways, and Rabyr's tantrum slowly came to an end, whereas he had already made his point with its first five words.

Layareh nodded amically. "That is good, and I will help you, for even though Chechel was wise enough to ward off my own magical powers, he did not silence any talents you might have." Rabyr raised an eyebrow in curiosity, but an unheard voice told him not to intervene with questions. Layareh frowned slightly as she continued. "Chechel is a formidable opponent, not only because of his Kehlat heritage, but also because he has his own form of spellcraft, as you very well know." She mumbled something he could not understand. When she looked up at him, the smile had returned, and her expression was once again the epitome of tranquility.

"But leave despair for some other time. I believe that there is a chance to oust him, at least if you do not face him directly." The mysterious comment was left without clarification as she rolled herself up on top of the stone, where she would be safe from most of the desert's nightly predators. Rabyr wanted to ask questions, more questions than could be answered within a fortnight, but again, she waved his curious expression away. "Sleep now. We will see if there's still hope for the Mistshard, tomorrow morning."

Rabyr nodded, but Mother Layareh had already closed her eyes. Filled with renewed hope, he assumed a comfortable position upon his own stone and tried to cross the line between the nightmares of reality and the dreams that lay beyond.

How do you let fire burn on sand, and why do these rocks feel like proper beds? was the final, trivial thought that crossed his mind before he fell into the darkness of sleep.

[Oneiro]

"Eat this."

Rabyr did not immediately act on Layareh's command. Instead, he looked upon the dried leaves in his hand with a mixture of curiosity and disgust; whatever plant they came from, they certainly smelled like they grew on fields of feces. Their surface was hairy, and uninviting, not to even speak of their color; veiny purple in tar-like black screamed the word 'inedible'. He carefully took the end of one of the peculiar leaves and held it vertically in front of his eyes, twisting it slowly as his violet gaze attempted to discern any effects that the foul-reeking flora would have upon ingestion. Sensing his hesitation, Layareh sat down on the rock opposite to his, and for a moment he was remembered of last night, when Layareh had divulged her story to him in exactly the same position. Her blind eyes managed to follow his stare no matter how fast he let his eyes wander over the leaves. Sight without sight. Fire without fuel. What other wondrous talents lay hidden beneath that old, weathered shell?

"Trust me," she reassured him, her voice tranquil and patient as ever. "Those are leaves of the Durzz'ch plant - a rare stimulant that enhances the ability to concentrate for hours on end. I always keep some of it with me, in case of emergency." She paused, and Rabyr guessed from her disappointed frown that she would have eaten the leaves in her earlier fight with Chechel, had she not been taken off guard by his call for Mitra. "It will considerably speed up the training process of what I am about to teach you, and you'll agree that at this moment, time is valuable as water." He nodded at the analogy that only a nomad would make, and without further hesitation, stuffed the entire handful of malodorous Durzz'ch into his mouth, starting to chew in an exaggerated matter. Anything to get his mind off that taste, for it was indescribably vile, bitter and sour, as if the leaves had been eaten and regurgitated by the slimiest of creatures multiple times. He squinted his eyes harshly. Seconds felt like minutes, but in the end, his tongue slowly became numb to the flavor, and his chewing came in a more natural rhythm. He opened his eyes again.

Everything around him seemed much sharper. It was as though he were aware of every aspect of his surroundings, without the need to focus on it. The Mistshard village, the sea of dunes that expanded endlessly in every direction, a whirling morning breeze sending dust devils through the drifts. A sand scorpion made its way out of the desert soil several yards to the south, and he could almost hear how its tiny legs scraped against the golden grains as it scurried away across the desolate landscape. Although they were literally half a mile away from the encampment, Rabyr could see how a miniscule Fhell lashed out with his fist at one of the younger tribesmen for knocking over a small carving of Mitra - small, wooden statues that seemed to have made their way into every single Mistshard tent by now. In all, it was a feeling of power he never thought could have existed. It all but forced the Durzz'ch's flavor out of his system as he breathed deeply, inhaling the strangest of odors that the desert normally kept hidden from its inhabitants.

"Good, it's working," Mother Layareh commented, smiling as she rose from her stone. She pointed down at the sand below her with two fingers, and started to make circular movements, first slow, then faster as the sand beneath her began to whip up in a circular pattern, following the unseen force exerted by the old shaman's extended fingers. Rabyr looked on in awe; stimulated by the exotic leaves, he could almost see the arcane skill involved in Layareh's actions, though the source and nature of the magic still eluded him. The ensorcelled sand moved faster and faster, assuming mesmerizing patterns, and despite the workings of the Durzz'ch, Rabyr had more and more trouble keeping up. His pupils attempted to follow each and every intricacy of Layareh's spellweaving, afraid to blink and miss something that would deny him from learning to wield the same kind of control. Layareh's smile widened slightly. A spike of warning drove itself through Rabyr's intuition, empowered by the Durzz'ch, but he was not fast enough. With a flick of her wrist, the shaman sent the thousands of crystalline projectiles at his face. Pain engulfed him as the golden arrows pierced into his flesh, sprayed into his eyes, nose and mouth, causing him to fall to the ground, on all fours in front of the stone, wanting to scream but managing only buffeted, desperate coughs.

"Now, let's see if I was right about you," Layareh's voice came through the torrential torment. It was calm as ever, but in his current state, it felt cold as a Fallien night. "You need to get that sand out of your body before it does any permanent damage. If I were you, I'd start with your eyes." That was all she said. Her shadow remained looming over him, but he knew that he was being left to his own devices. A wave of panic shot through him. How could she possibly expect him to do this? He did not know the slightest thing about magic, and obviously, picking each grain out with his hands or other common methods would do about as much good as blinding himself directly. Salty tearwater ran in streams down his cheeks, evaporating almost instantly in the Fallien heat as his body attempted to expel the aureate intruders through natural means, all in vain. Breathing was difficult, and to Rabyr, it felt as though the Durzz'ch enhanced the sensation of pain as much as it had improved his other senses. It was as though he could feel every separate grain scratch violently against his corneae, an army of blades besieging the defenseless violet without mercy. Suddenly, the pain was forced to the back of his mind as the young hunter finally understood that in that thought lay the solution to his predicament.

Mother Layareh looked on with pride as the grey-skinned apprentice heaved his sand-covered hand up to his face, forced his eyes wide open despite the horrendous pain that the sand was causing him, and his trembling body was overtaken by the calm of concentration. One by one, torturously slow, specks of golden soil sprang away from the smooth face and bled-through eyes, being pulled towards their brethren in Rabyr's hand by sheer force of will. As an age-old practitioner of geomancy, Layareh knew all too well that the workings of the skill could not be explained, nor described, not even to the ones that had an innate talent for it, like the devout hunter in front of her. It either showed itself in the direst of situations - or it never did. But once it had, once the apprentice had been able to manipulate the sand even in the most inconsequential way thinkable, then fleshing out and refining the skill was something that could be learned.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Meanwhile, within the Mistshard village, Chechel was standing fiercely upon a pulpit carved from sandstone. His deep voice boomed over the tribesmen, revelling in their gullibility and superstitious nature. Such preaching had quickly become part of his daily agenda, and much to his satisfaction, he could see that with every passing day, more and more Mistshards decided to openly worship Mitra. They exchanged their glasswork, which had been crafted in honor of Suravani, for the wooden carvings of the Kehlat. They had learned many of the recurring prayers by heart, and a lot of them kneeled when he spoke, although he had never said that he required such acts from them.

Today's speech had been a little bit different - after the turmoil caused by that brat, Oneiro, there had been a need for some proper vilifying. Even though none of these Mistshards would ever see the young hunter again - he had made sure of that the day before - he could not allow the Drow-skinned's doubts about Mitra to bury its tendrils into the minds of others whom had not been completely swayed yet. To that effect, he had told them that in his ceaseless battle against the True Goddess, Mitra, Oneiro had chosen to not directly confront the Emissary about the matter - the honorable thing to do amongst nomads. Instead, or so he had told them, Oneiro had opted to run off in the middle of the night, putting the entire tribe in danger by gutting half of the camels that it required for transportation, and by emptying many jars of water upon the ever-thirsty sands of the desert, which would cause many needlessly parched mouths in the near future.

The Emissary grinned, though to his underlings, he made sure it appeared a smile of divine goodwill. Slaughtering the camels had been a grisly activity, and fragments of a clay jar had sliced open his lower arm when he'd dropped it from a little too high last night, but at least every single one of Rabyr's sympathizers had been forced into silence. One girl amidst the gathered crowd, one known to be fierce, proud, and staunchly loyal to Suravani, looked particularly disillusioned, and though she still refused to join in their religious chanting apart from gracing them with her mandatory presence, Chechel could feel that his grasp around the heart of this clan had significantly steadied.

[Oneiro]

Five days later

Even compared to the hunt for the great desert scarabs two years ago, Rabyr had never felt so much a predator as in this very moment. The lifeless contours of his clan's tents rose up in the distant night sky. A strong, unforgiving storm blew sand all around him, but not a single grain reached him, much less pierced his thick clothing. He was focused beyond imagination, his awakened power fuelled by the Durzz'ch leaves that he continually chewed upon. He had long since grown used to their vile flavor. Five days of training - that was all it had taken for the old shaman to teach him the basics of manipulating the one thing that a desert could always do without: sand. He had learned to move it with his mind, manipulate its density, but also to disallow any sand the opportunity to touch him - a very helpful skill when moving through a flesh-shredding sandstorm. Of course, all of that had only been possible due to the Durzz'ch leaves and their enrichening effects - he could hardly move a handful of sand without the stimulant's help. Tonight, however, he had enough of a reserve with him to assure that he would make it through the sandstorm unscathed. By the time he reached the edge of the Mistshard camp, the initial pair of leaves still had not shown any sign of losing its effect.

He froze as he looked down. There lay Fhell, burrowed into the sand to protect himself from the storm, but ever on guard. It was strange; they were looking each other into the eye, but nothing changed about the guard's posture. Nothing showed that he would scream out in alarm. It was as though the recently converted hunter looked right through him. He stood in awkward stillness for a couple of seconds, afraid that any movement would cause Fhell to raise an uproar after all, but then he realized that Chechel's spell was, of course, still in effect. None of his tribesmen could see him! He almost laughed out loud as the weight of worry fell from his heart. He hoped he would get the opportunity to tell Chechel about the wisdom in turning your enemy invisible from those that guarded you - preferably when the hated Emissary dangled from the edge of his scimitar, tonight. Reassured about the success of this daring mission he had embarked upon, he moved on, stepping carefully around Fhell's self-made trench, leaving the younger hunter staring into the distance, oblivious to the invisible assailant that had entered his camp mere seconds ago.

Even amidst the night's darkness, the desert cold, and the endless assault of the sand-bearing wind, it was far from difficult to discern the tribal-marked leader's tent from the other temporary habitats. He made his way there in a straight line, noticing several more guards on the way, and revelling in the irony of the curse of banishing that had been put upon him by that pompous preacher. His heart jumped up in excitement as he thought of how close the rule of Mitra over the Mistshard was to its demise, and it beat with dark glee that her most devout follower was completely unaware of that fact. Like a shadow, he unclasped the greater tent's entrance, and as the canvas billowed out of his way, caught by the wind, he sneaked inside. He was not afraid that the sound of his entrance would awaken Chechel from his sleep - if one could sleep through a sandstorm, like any nomad should, then the occasional sound of fiber being tossed around by the same storm would not disturb the man's dreams.

Unfortunately, as he entered the tent's sleeping area, he noticed that Chechel had not been entirely guileless. Kolan, huge as ever, sat on a chair beside his new master's bed, visibly tired but very much on guard. Although Rabyr knew that he was invisible to the great guard's eyes, too, he could not help but feel anxious as he moved into the room. For a tent, it was very luxurious. Chechel's sleeping form was even supported by a mattress. The air was suffused with odors not in place in the desert, as though the Emissary had perfumed the entire quarter with an outlandish aroma. It was warm, too, far warmer than Rabyr would consider comfortable for sleeping. Paired with the feeling of being continuously observed by Kolan's unseeing eyes, it made him sweat - a highly uncomfortable feat, considering the many layers of clothing surrounding his breathless skin. It took a while before he noticed that most of the strange smell in the room emanated from two small candles in the corner of the room, their flames barely noticeable to the human eye, but their odor unmistakably growing stronger as he tread closer to them. Much to Rabyr's surprise, there were names upon the candles' bodies. One name was crude and barely legible, as though it had been haphazardly etched into the tough wax - ONEIRO. The other candle, however, was slightly bigger, and Rabyr could easily read the name upon it, which had been put there with great care in neat handwriting - LAYAREH.

His curiosity got the best of him; what was Chechel planning, lighting candles for them? Was it some kind of ritual to mark all those that he had unleashed Mitra's powers upon, these days? His mind wandered from the task at hand, the hatred that did not befit him quickly assimilated by the curiosity that had always been very much his hallmark. After several seconds of pondering, he made a decision. Whatever the Emissary had in store for him and Layareh, it could not be in their favor. With caution, he stretched out one of his hands and slowly closed two fingers around the faint flame of the candle with his own name on it. He waited for several seconds. He could hear his heart beat within his throat. Nothing. Slightly disappointed with the lack of any tangible effect, he turned around just in time to see Kolan's gigantic boot flying towards his face. The blow was nauseating; his head whipped back as the nomad's shin connected with his forehead, and he would not have been surprised if his skull had shown signs of cracking. He immediately slumped down to the floor, but was not allowed to, for two strong hands caught him in mid-air and brought him up, causing his dizziness to increase by a tenfold. In the meanwhile, confusion reigned his subconscious. How could this be? Wasn't he invisible?

"Ah, what have we here?" he heard Chechel's voice, a snake's slither in the middle of the night. A curved dagger gleamed ominously in the Emissary's hand - he was quite awake, as though he had not been sleeping the entire time, though Rabyr was quite certain that he'd heard the Kehlat snoring. "An... assassin?" He shook his head theatrically, sighing as if disappointed, but when he walked closer, Rabyr could see bloodlust in his eyes. The part of him that wasn't still reeling from the blow that Kolan had dealt him oozed with a sense of defeat. He did not respond. He had failed.

"I suppose I should have done this immediately, but..." Chechel continued, and the malicious glistening of his eyes sharpened, as though he'd been pondering a thought that had now turned into a concrete idea "... perhaps it is better this way. I could tell your clansmen that you returned to slaughter one of your own kin, and that Kolan arrived just in time to see you commit the act... just not save the poor victim." His mumblings trailed off, no doubt into even darker areas of his imagination. Rabyr was slowly recovering from Kolan's kick, but rather wished he'd still been dizzied and confused, for Chechel's proposed contrivances disgusted him. He was a disgrace to the folk of nomads - a Kehlat through and through. "... Yeah, I think that curly girl would make a good victim, and we'll put your corpse next to hers, to make it all more believable," the Emissary concluded his vile idea. Kolan had not budged visibly, but Rabyr could feel the strong hands trembling against his biceps. Good. So even Chechel's personal bodyguard wasn't entirely convinced of the superiority of their new leader.

"Of course, there's just one little detail," Chechel added, and inclined his head towards Rabyr as though reprimanding a child. "You will have to die. Let's take care of that, first."

Rabyr's survivor instinct raced frenetically through his options. He was caught, caged, and humiliated, but not about to die. Remembering Kolan's nomad spirit, which had tangibly been offended during Chechel's grim idea of setting the violet-eyed hunter up, he uttered a single word.

"Kondodamu." Blood duel. An ancient word, passed on from generation to generation of nomads, though always in the hope that it would never need to be uttered during the child's lifetime. It was a last resort, and usually only a delay of death. But a delay, to Rabyr, was better than a certain demise. Chechel, however, did not seem affected at all, as though he had not even heard his quarry speak the ancestral command. The curved dagger came steadily closer. Prehensile murderlust showed clearly in the malevolent onyxes. Rabyr blinked as panic started to overcome him. Surely, even a Kehlat would not go against the most mystical, most honored of traditions among the Fallien desert-dwellers?

Relief surged through his shoulders as he felt Kolan's hand release his left arm and, like lightning, grip the wrist of his new leader. Chechel looked up at his guard, his face contorted into an expression of anger. However, Kolan was completely unintimidated. He was loyal to Mitra, yes, but he would not stand for an intrusion upon a fellow nomad's most cherished, most important right - to defend his own life from those willing to take it away from him. Silence reigned, minutes seemed to pass. Then, finally, Chechel retracted the blade, casting a furious gaze at Rabyr's downed frame.

"Fine. A blood duel. First thing tomorrow morning, I shall slay you. I shall slay you in front of the eyes of all your kin, and then I will tell them a story so shameful, so disgraceful, that your spirit would wish you had agreed with what I proposed just now." He gestured at Kolan with barely contained rage. "Throw him into his tent. Make sure he does not escape." Kolan grumbled in affirmation, and Rabyr felt himself being pulled out of the tent. Although he had saved his hide for now, bitter disappointment roiled through every fiber of his being as he was pulled back into the sandstorm. The mission had been a failure. In retrospect, he might as well have died in there. He quickly ditched the thought; determination took over once more. He lived, so he would fight, and as long as he could fight, Chechel had not triumphed. With that new boost of self-confidence came an insight. Chewing harshly upon the residue of the Durzz'ch left within his jaws, he sent a small amount of sand from the storm into the leader's tent, where Chechel had already gone to sleep.

Chechel snored harshly. In the corner of his room, unbeknownst to the Emissary's closed eyes, sand descended upon the pitiable flame of Layareh's candle. The fire flickered, then faded innoticeably.

[Oneiro]

Dawn came in slate colors, bearing warmth without feeling. Mother Layareh's warning buzzed through his head, and had done so for the entire night, depriving him of the sleep he knew he needed to make any kind of chance against Chechel today. He had been a fool. He should have tried to finish it there and then, where they had not been surrounded by thirty other, Mitra-worshipping clansmen. When he walked into that ring of people today, it would feel just like signing a death warrant. Worst of all, with him would die his honor as both a nomad and a hunter, which would only serve to reinforce Chechel's already unchallenged rule over his clan. There would be no one to make a martyr out of him. His blood, that would stain the sands today, would be named the tainted blood of a faithless, and Mitra would allow no salty tear to be spilled over it. Since his departure, his tent had been robbed of what little possessions he'd had; his weapons had likely been divided over more loyal hunters. Still, the empty interior left a bittersweet feeling. Being able to spend your final night in a place you could call home, Rabyr now realized, was strangely soothing. He heard someone duck through the tent entrance, but he kept staring down at the floor.

"It's time," he heard Kolan's deep voice. There was no sympathy in its tones; even though deep inside he might be fiercely against Chechel's besmudging of the nomad code, the guard knew that helping Rabyr with a blood duel in any way would bring eternal shame upon the greyskin, whether he lived or died today. Rabyr nodded, but did not look up. The giant nomad grumbled something that sounded oddly like a good luck wish, then made his exit as quickly as he had come, leaving the violet-eyed hunter with his thoughts. After several seconds, his gaze hardened. He rose from the wickerwork, his limbs feeling oddly light as he moved towards the stripe of light that shone inside from the entranceway. A crackling sound erupted from his fist as he clenched his fingers together firmly, bruising the last batch of Durzz'ch leaves that he had kept hidden within his turban. Their rancid smell immediately wafted over him, but he brought the plants up to his lips without hesitation, and as his teeth grinded through the tough fibers, he savored their unspeakably bitter taste, almost hoping that it could take away the bitterness that reigned his thoughts. Then, he moved through the rough canvas that separated him from his final fight.

Despite the fierce sunlight, the atmosphere was remarkably grim. He could feel his clansmen's eyes on him as he moved to the middle of the circle they had formed upon the empty camp centre. Their expressions were void of emotion, as they should during any occasion as serious as a blood duel. Rabyr would have given anything to see the same indifference on their faces when it came to Mitra. He'd rather they did not believe in any Goddess than being these newest zealots of the Sun Goddess. He shook his head innoticeably as he came to a halt several yards in front of his tent, facing the other side of the circle. What wonderful wishes sprang from a heart about to be extinguished. He sighed, but his eyes showed determination as his opponent came forward, treading royally upon what he now viewed as his sands. Rabyr was calm, and not only through the entrancing workings of the Durzz'ch. He would give this fight his all, even if that was not nearly enough to vanquish the Kehlat's supernatural powers.

Chechel's perpetual arrogance still shone through in his onyx eyes as the Emissary stopped in a position opposite to the vilified liberator. Although obviously having been displeased with being unable to kill last night's assassin on the spot in his tent, he seemed far from worried at having to face his attacker one-on-one. With reason, according to what Rabyr had gathered from Mother Layareh. He swallowed harshly, but when his hand went over his shoulder to grip the haft of the scimitar that clinged to his back reassuringly, his movements were without tremble or hesitance. If he would die, then he would die a clansman's death. A true clansman's death - not one that lay apathetic under the stark shade of a blinding religion, expecting a better afterlife. Iron scoured against leather clasps as he broke his weapon loose from its confines, assuming a wary posture. Chechel did not move at all. He was not even wearing a weapon, as far as Rabyr could see, though the danger of the golden medallion hanging around the man's neck stood grifted deeply into his memory.

"The Blood Duel will continue until one of the participants is dead," Kolan announced monotonously from the sideline, his voice filled with the same neutrality that rendered the tribesmen's faces dull and merciless. "Begin."

As soon as the final word was uttered, Rabyr began sidestepping slowly, cautiously making his way around the Emissary in a circular pattern, looking for an opening - a predator's approach, a hunter's approach. However, his careful approach proved unwarranted, for Chechel showed no sign of even blinking. The pampered leader just stood there, looking straight at the spot where Rabyr had been at the beginning of the fight. The young hunter frowned, wondering whether the cleric was trying to insult him, or just plain idiotic, but remained on guard nonetheless. If this man could banish a Mistshard shaman without suffering a scratch, then the thought that he might beat the violet-eyed nomad without looking away once was not all that incredible. He steadied his grip on the scimitar, and his concern faded. That kind of hubris on Chechel's part would only work to his advantage. With the quickness of a cobra, he lashed out with his sword in a short, controlled slashed toward his nemesis's jugular, re-enunciating the fact that a blood duel was to the death, and nothing less. He could almost feel the frictionless contact of steel against flesh, of blood spouting out of the man's neck, the due price for underestimating a hunter.

But then, Chechel was gone.

His eyes widened. His strike seemed to come to an end unbearably slow, giving his unseen enemy aeons upon aeons to capitalize on the grave opening that it left to his side - and indeed, a looming shadow moved in the unprotected corner of his eye. He threw himself to the side in a desperate, evasive roll just in time to feel the thrust of a dagger penetrate the clothes and skin beneath his ribs. His shoulder touched the sand, and he rolled himself upon into a ball, adrenaline taking away much of the pain of wound, from which blood slowly started to seep. Upon finishing his maneuver, he immediately turned to face Chechel, whom had not even deigned to come after him and finish the job. Vanity shone clearly upon the Emissary's thin lips, the ends curling upwards as though he were enjoying the simplicity of a canned hunt. The dagger he had used to pierce Rabyr with was gone again; a concealed weapon worked best when it was just that - hidden. The comfort in the Kehlat's posture, and the disdain in his eyes all served to spark Rabyr's rising anger to new levels. Suddenly, he understood why people waged war, and why rebels existed, everywhere, and why they should exist. His face lay contorted in an expression that glared with rage, and he attacked again. This time, no maneuvering, no tactics. A frontal assault with enough force to cleave a boar in two. The tip of his blade gleamed in the unrelenting sun as he brought it up for the devastating slash. When it came down in a crescent of lethal steel, Chechel still had not moved.

His blade collided with something, but instead of running right through, as Rabyr had expected, he was hit with the full recoil of his attack, as though he had tried to slice through a diamond. He heard gasps run rampant around the circle of tribesmen, and he could not suppress one himself when he saw what had happened - nothing. Chechel still stood there, and his sword had hit exactly where he had aimed it. But apart from a rip in the cloth surrounding his shoulder, the Emissary was completely unaffected. He had not moved an inch, and nor had his smile. They locked eyes, and as violet was swallowed whole by greedy onyx, Rabyr felt genuinely afraid. His body was momentarily paralyzed both by shock and by the power of the impact, and that was all the time that Chechel needed. Almost nonchalantly, the Emissary placed his index finger on Rabyr's right shoulder, and their eyes remained locked as his lips showed slight signs of movement. The whisper came forth in the strange language that he knew but did not understand. "Nacta."

He wanted to scream as the Kehlat's fingertip began to glow, and a burning pain made its way through his entire arm, as though his shoulder had been skewered by a rusty spear. Smoke and the rancid smell of burnt flesh emanated from the pain's epicenter, and though colors danced in front of his eyes and his mind lay detached from his body, severing itself from the unbearable pain, he knew that the smiling man in front of him had just blown a hole into his body, a thin beam disintegrating everything in its path. And he wasn't even sweating. His violet eyes remained wide open as he slumped to the oddly soft sands below. The chewed Durzz'ch fell from his mouth, leaving blackened specks on his chin and chest. Even though there was silence all around them, he felt that had they been roaring and cheering, he would not have heard it either. He fought to regain control of his limbs, to stand up as Chechel slowly walked to his injured side, towering over him like a cheetah over a recently downed gazelle.

"Lu'ji, ol unl'r." This time, it was not a spell to harm him, though a part of him could feel the magic flowing through the words, even without the aid of the Durzz'ch. The world seemed far away as something materialized in Chechel's hands, the black steel glimmering in the sun as the Emissary heaved the sharp object up into the air, the point staring solemnly down at Rabyr's heart. The embrace of the hot sand below him was oddly inviting, the grains burning into his clothing taking his attention away from the tormenting pains in his afflicted shoulder. The entire, mesmerizing scene vanished as he heard the sound of something shattering in mid-air, and clarity allowed his reflexes to heave up his arm in front of his face as the tiniest snippets of black steel rained down upon him. Bewildered, he looked up at Chechel, but immediately noticed that the Emissary's abhorrent onyxes were no longer fixed upon him.

Pierce.

And so, it ends.

[Oneiro]

All faces were turned to the west, following Chechel's gaze, straight into the milky, blind eyes of an almost apologetically smiling Mother Layareh. Had they been amazed at Rabyr Oneiro's reappearance, now their faces were truly graced by the most stunned expressions they could muster. Although he lay broken next to his warrior's pride upon the sands of the village centre, it brought a grin to the violet-eyed nomad's lips. He might have lost the fight, but Layareh had been able to take his place as a beacon of Suravani, and the other nomads were once more able to see her; his insight in extinguishing her candle last night proved a brilliant one. Mitra's reign would end this day. Every fiber of his being was completely certain of that, despite having experienced Chechel's great power firsthand. There was just something about the old shaman as she stood there, motionless in in the desert sun with an unreal gleam over her entire body, as though the Sun Goddess's golden rays bound away before they could reach her, afraid to lay even a finger on her in disrespect. It was as if Suravani herself had returned to the Mistshard village to oust the black-haired perpetrator that had sought to dethrone her.

"Old Mother Layareh!" Chechel started with faked joviality. Unlike Rabyr, he seemed far from convinced of his impending demise. In fact, it seemed that he was nothing but amused by Layareh's sudden intervention in the Blood Duel, despite having taken every possible measure to keep her out of the village before. "You have returned, against all odds. What can Mitra's humble servants do for you today?" the Emissary took care to enunciate the plural, 'servants', indicating that she and Rabyr stood alone against at least thirty, zealous tribesmen. If he were expecting a reaction to this provocative question, he was left sorely disappointed; Layareh's silent smile seemed eternal, and knowing. That motionless posture, that message that she would stand there, regardless of what happened here, reinforced Rabyr's certainty that they were fighting a winning battle, even though the situation suggested a different status quo.

"Look now," Chechel continued loudly once he realized he would be gifted no word from the shaman's lips, and he gestured around at the Mistshards encircling him. "I could banish you from sight and mind with merely three half-believers! Now, old Layareh, can you even guess what I can do to you when I'm surrounded by more than twenty enlightened, devout clansmen in service of the Sun Goddess?!" His words were painted shrill by a touch of maniacal glee. Still, Layareh gave no reaction whatsoever. It was almost like she had been frozen solid, had that been possible in the middle of the desert. When he was again deprived of a reaction, the Emissary finally grew annoyed.

"Fine!" he shouted in hoarse fury. "Then see for yourself! This time, I shall not just banish you... I shall erase every last trace of your existence!" And with that, he took hold of the amulet around his neck as he had during their first encounter. With a wide grin that told all about his true nature as acolyte of a forgotten Goddess, he heaved his free hand into the sky, gathering the energy required for Mitra's judgment. This time, it took much longer than during their first fight, and for the first time since their shaman's appearance, Rabyr grew slightly worried. He squinted his eyes to violet slits, hoping to distinguish any kind of movement from Layareh at the other end of the circle. But the old woman remained still as ever, like a mirage, visible, but irreachably far away. Was she even really there? His eyes returned to Chechel, and as Mitra's sorcerer screamed the dreaded words, he sat straight up, despite the burning pain it caused within his shoulder and ribcage. "Wun l'kaas d'Mitra, colnbluth, dos orn tlu ellgat!"

It was strangely unspectacular; instead of the giant flash of light that had accompanied his first spell, this time the amulet shot a thin stream of pure, white energy straight at the motionless, old shaman. Chechel did not seem surprised, though, so Rabyr assumed this was the way the spell was supposed to work. The beam moved with a torturing slowness, and sported an almost oozing structure. And still, Layareh did not move. Was she insane? He dared not look on as the beam made contact with the shaman's strangely glistening robes. When, even after three seconds, nothing happened, Rabyr looked around confused, until his violet gaze fell upon Chechel, who had lost much of his composure. He screamed words in that strangely familiar language, as though he were trying to spur his spell onward, but it seemed to have no effect on Layareh. If anything, the gleam that had surrounded her from the very start changed color, from being transparent to red, to yellow, to violet, as though the amulet's white light was being broken and filtered by thousands of spectrums. She kept smiling, unaffected. Rabyr felt an air of victory come over him. He did not know how Layareh had managed to block Mitra's power, but this was his chance to try and weaken it. He raised his hand to the sky, biting through the pain of the wound in his shoulder, curled his fingers into a determined fist and shouted as loud as he could.

"Suravani!"

He repeated the shout, again and again. He could feel his clansmen's eyes upon him now, as he cheered on the Earth Goddess like a maniac, but their faces were not filled with ridicule. Instead, their eyes shifted uneasily between Chechel and Layareh, as they were faced with proof that Mitra was by no means the most powerful Goddess. Sychia, loyal to Layareh as she was, had started shouting the name that Chechel dreaded so much as well. Within seconds, five more voices rose up from the circle - Kolan and Fhell, amongst others - and it was not long before all, even the three hunters that had caused Layareh's disappearance in the past, were shouting the Earth Goddess's name with a tone of reverence that bordered on a declaration of war on the followers of Mitra.

And as Chechel's hold over the Mistshards broke, so did the energy of destruction that sprang from the Emissary's amulet subside. The colors dancing around Mother Layareh slowly disappeared, and only then did Rabyr recognize the trail of geomancy that ran all over his mentor's body. It was so simple! She had known that Chechel's most dangerous assault would be reliant on a beam of light, and by creating a thin layer of crystal all around her body that broke and reflected the light in any direction but her own, she'd been safe from its banishing effects! That was also the reason why she had been standing still all the time: the crystallized formation had made it impossible to move! He almost stopped shouting Suravani's name, just to laugh at the insane risk in it all. But it took effort enough to just keep the cheering going through the continuous pains stabbing inside his chest, so he decided it better not to.

Chechel, on the other hand, seemed far from amused. He was breathing heavily, much of his power having been drained by the attack that had just gone awry. He looked on in deep rage as Layareh released herself from her crystal confines with a crackling sound, like a butterfly shedding its cocoon. Then she walked forward, into the circle, casually eyeing Mitra's Emissary as the Kehlat stood doubled over with his hands upon his knees, panting. She spoke as she went, her voice nothing more than a whisper, and yet, everyone could hear what she was saying. The chanting of Suravani's name came to a close: not because the Earth Goddess had lost their support once more, but merely to allow everyone to listen to the wise words of their returned shaman.

"To those who bonded with this man and his false Goddess, fear not. Suravani is kind. Suravani forgives." The three drake hunters, as well as Kolan, Fhell, and several others, cast their eyes down at the sand, ashamed but grateful.

"To those who fought this man and his false Goddess, thank you. Suravani is kind. Suravani heals." She did not look at him, but suddenly, Rabyr felt relief flood through muscle, bone and sinew. He looked down at his shoulder. The white cloth there was still soaked with blood, but the flesh beneath was miraculously whole. Amazed, he stood up. At the other side of the circle, near Chechel, he could see Sychia run her hands over her face. She, too, was rejuvenated. The silence became thick as Layareh came to a standstill in front of the Emissary, and raised her hand, palm outward, at a place between Chechel's face and chest.

"To the man who sought to overthrow the true Goddess with man-made ploys..." she continued, and Rabyr inclined his head towards the scene in anticipation. Layareh only had one word to say, and this time, he could understand what she was commanding, despite again not knowing the language she spoke in. "Lassrinn!".

In the name of Mitra, outsider, you will be destroyed!

Break!

[Oneiro]

Not the slightest drift dared shatter the silence as the chain around Chechel's neck broke and his delicate medallion dropped to the ground, aureate shrapnel set afly in diffuse circles as the core of its power exploded in mid-air. A blast of unchained energy echoed through the dunes, making the hair on Rabyr's neck stand up in excitement. It was over within a heartbeat. The Emissary of Mitra stood defeated, the eyes of no longer enchanted clansmen upon him like gunpoints on an execution ground. His eyes were drenched in crimson veins, his thick brows furrowed in unspeakable rage, but he was no longer able to convert that anger into mystical energy; with the destruction of the medallion, what little magical aptitude he'd had had vanished. He was but a lonely Kehlat at the mercy of at least thirty Mistshards, one of which included a shaman that was veritably sparking with magical expertise; Rabyr had not known how to handle the full extent of the power that she had taught him to wield, but Mother Layareh had proven nothing less than a master of geomancy. Had it not been for her, they would have likely lost to Mitra, in the end. But she was here for them, like a hawk watching over her nest, and Rabyr felt safe.

"NO!" Chechel barked in defiance, and the feeling of reassurance made place for fresh alertness. Regardless of clan or belief, Chechel was still a nomad, and thus a survivor to the end. Too late did Rabyr see what the false cleric was planning - with the speed of a dune scorpion, the Kehlat had leaped at the nearest nomad and retrieved a curved dagger from its hiding place in the sleeve of his attire. Before any tribesman could act, he had pulled his unfortunate victim back to a safe position in the middle of the circle, the sharp edge of his hidden weapon pressed tightly against the Mistshard's jugular. A despicable, cowardly act that made Rabyr cringe from head to toe, but an effective one, for no nomad would willingly cause the death of a fellow clan member. Although the Emissary's might was broken, he was not about to give up and die. If his escape was successful, it would make the aftertaste of this day far too bitter, and yet, there was nothing they could do. Silence reigned the tense stalemate as his violet eyes locked with Chechel's malicious stare. Then his eyes moved down to see whose life was balancing at the edge of the knife at her throat. Purple was crossed by hazel.

He couldn't help it. He laughed. He laughed so hard that his eyes got teary, so hard that his fellow tribesmen looked upon him in discomfort, unable to discern the hilarity of the situation. Chechel, too, seemed taken aback. His grip on the knife loosened. That was all it took.

Barely containing a smile herself, Sychia's hand grabbed the Emissary's weapon-wielding wrist while she threw her head backwards, smashing her cranium against the Kehlat's exposed chin. The oppressor yelped as his own teeth were jabbed through his upper lip, unable to keep hold of the most proficient of fighters amongst the Mistshard women, and losing track of her as she bit in his hand, making him drop the dangerous dagger to the sand below. Just as the coward began to recover from the vicious headbutt, Sychia growled and rammed her shin into the Kehlat's male parts, with such force that Rabyr almost felt sorry for the Emissary's choice of hostage. With a hideous sound that held it between a gurgle and a tormented outcry, the broken cleric doubled over and fell to the soil, his eyes rolling into the back of his skull as his body recognized the severity of the blow that had been dealt. His tortured body remained motionless as Sychia picked up the Kehlat's own dagger and walked over to him, her eyes merciless. All clan members knew what was next, and all could do nothing but agree.

"Time to explain that belief of yours to the Earth Mother," she commented softly as she slit his throat with one, simple movement - a swipe that bore no hatred, despite the misdeeds he had done. He had lost the blood duel, had lost his honor, and so he died. That was all there was to it. Suravani would judge over his fate with the wisdom that they, as mortals, lacked. Still, Rabyr could not help but feel relieved as the puddle of blood soaked into the sand beneath Chechel's dying remains. Mitra's reign had ended, and her grasp had finally left the confines of the Mistshards' residence.

[Oneiro]

It never took long before nomads returned to their normal lives after even the most life-altering events. For such a superstitious folk, Rabyr thought, we put one Goddess away for the other rather smoothly. Of course, the events of the previous days had been beyond any tribesman's control, and it was perhaps this sense of helplessness, the mere thought that if it had not been for Rabyr's and Sychia's continuous doubt, they would still be drooling like pups at the feet of a false Goddess, that drove them to try and forget the matter as soon as possible. That did not mean that they did not acknowledge what their strange-eyed peer had done for them. He had been congratulated by some. Most, in tune with their rugged nature, had scolded him for having taken so long. The most obstinate of them went as far as to say that they had not been under Mitra's mesmerizing touch at all, and that this all had simply been a test to see how he handled himself in the face of danger.

He grinned at their foolish pride as he looked over his shoulder. Behind him, most of the hunting party was still sitting in the middle of the camp, caught in contemplation near the campfire. Because he had been instrumental in the defeat of the Emissary, he had been named their leader, allowing him to brandish the title Heart of the Hunt, and in honor of that promotion, he had been granted a scimitar of the finest steel, which he now wore with pride behind his back. Most of the other hunters were older than he, and he knew that he was a long way from earning their individual respect. His violet orbs returned to the endless sands in front of him. Oh well. He'd take them hunting sand wurms tomorrow, and he himself would play the bait. That should convince most of them of his mettle - as long as he survived. He chuckled. It was good to be a hunter.

He lost track of time - he just stood upright, looking out over the desert that most would call inhospitable, yet that he called his home. It was only when another stepped next to him that he awoke from his trance-like restfulness. He felt very refreshed, as though he'd been sleeping all the while. He looked to his left and was surprised to see that it was Sychia. She was not wearing her turban, so that her raven curls ran freely over her shoulders, framing the dark skin of her face. Maybe it was because of this lack of covering, but maybe also because of her eyes, which were not aimed for him, but staring aimlessly into the night, that made her image a very vulnerable one. An image that absolutely did not suit her; it worried him even more because this was supposed to be a period of rest and celebration. The horrors were over, were they not? But he remained silent, taking his eyes of her and gazing with her, into nothingness.

"I suppose I owe you an apology," she started stiffly. Rabyr said nothing, both out of respect and bewilderment. He knew that it must be unimaginably hard for someone with Sychia's pride to say those words, even moreso because he did not know what in Suravani's name she should be apologizing for. "When Chechel told us you ran away to save yourself... I believed him. I hadn't seen you for so long - I doubted you, and your dedication to our clan." He had not known this, and the words hurt him, though not as much as they seemed to anguish her. She turned her jagged features towards him, her hazel eyes for once not running him through, but seeking shelter.

"And I was wrong. Foolish."

She moved closer. To Rabyr, it felt completely alien. This was so unlike her. "My judgment was no better than a man's," she mumbled, ashamed, referencing the reason why in Fallien, women were leaders and men were servants. She reached up towards his face with her fingers, unfurling the cloth before his mouth, so that he could feel the nightly chill against his cheeks. Then, her hands went behind his neck, and he looked down at her, and she looked up at him. Classic, romantic - and completely wrong. "So for me, there's no more reason to assume I'm on a higher level than you..." her voice trailed away as she moved her face closer to his, and the violet-eyed nomad himself followed, mesmerized. He made a decision.

"Did you know you have a very nice behind?" he whispered boyishly as their lips were inches away from each other. That fazed her; she blinked rapidly and raised her eyebrows in query.

"And I never knew a girl like you would sleep, you know, in the buff." She let go of him, confused and blushing through her chocolate tones, and his grin widened. Apparently, that rumor about her he'd heard from the hunting party had been true. Good. He was about to bring back the Sychia that he knew - the Sychia that he wanted to kiss, but never would, which was exactly the reason for his desire.

"Wh- what do you-?" she blabbered.

"You know, when Chechel made me invisible to everyone, like I told you?" he elaborated slightly and saw her visage change into an expression that told him she was beginning to understand what he was implying, much to his satisfaction. Her glare regained some of that icy, untouchable quality of past years. She opened her mouth to say something, but he could no longer contain his mirth, and he threw the lie at her before she had the chance to utter but a tone. "Let's just say you don't get the opportunity to be invisible in a woman's tent every day!" It confirmed what she'd been thinking, he could see it. He looked her in the eye with a mischievous smirk. The ice was back. With the flair of an overfed charmer, he blew her a handkiss before spinning around his axis and running away as fast as he could, knowing that he might as well have fastened a red flag to his behind and shaken his hips at the nearest bull.

"You little, sneaky, perverted...!" The swearing continued in an unstoppable stream as she sprang into action, her feet racing over the sand in pursuit of the shameless hunter.

Mother Layareh sensed their spirits as the two younglings left the village, sprinting into the dangers of the desert - or as they preferred to call it, into fun. Such bright young pupils. Whatever the future would throw their way, she had a feeling that in it, both would play a larger part than they would have chosen, and not only for the tribe. She snickered as she turned around, vanishing from sight behind the sand-colored fabric of her old tent. At least for now, all was well.

[Skie and Avery]

Quest Judging
Under the Yoke of Reverence

You've waited far too long for this, and I would like to apologize. This should have been done days ago, if not a full week.

STORY

Continuity ~ 7/10. Simple, good. I would have liked a little more about the war that was referenced.
Setting ~ 7/10. Again, good, but not fantastic. There was never a question about this taking place out in the middle of the desert, and you started out very strong. At the end, most of the description was towards actions, with the background fading in it's vibrancy.
Pacing ~ 4/10. This a good story, but it could have been paced much better. It dragged along, with the action seeming to go by too quickly. The suspense would ebb and wane, and it really brought down the effect the climax had.
CHARACTER

Dialogue ~ 7/10. I love the use of Drow, and the feeling of recognition it brought.
Action ~ 5/10. See Pacing
Persona ~ 5/10. Sychia came across strongly here, as did the old shaman. Rabyr, however, was dull. Your writing style only got personal towards the end, giving me very little insight for most of the story into his feelings. When you could change very little to history and still manage to insert most any Althanas character into the story and read it the same, there needs to be some definite changes.

WRITING STYLE

Technique ~ 5/10. You're a good writer, but your technique lent very little to the character and story. There were times when it felt like you were a whore for the thesaurus. Don't get me wrong; I did see things in there I liked. At one point you referenced words as a gift in there, and that really lent the sentence and paragraph weight. Little things like that are amazing for writing, so put a lot of thought into how you're saying things. Just stating them intelligently isn't necessarily great writing.
Mechanics ~ 10/10.
Clarity ~ 10/10.

MISCELLANEOUS

Wild Card ~ 7/10. I'm looking forward to seeing where this goes.

TOTAL ~ 60/100.

Rewards

Oneiro gains 685 EXP, and 168 GP. Steel Scimitar also rewarded.

[Witchblade]

EXP and GP added!