A Thousand Mirages

[Inkfinger]

Closed to Behemoth (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=16674). Subsequent posts will be much shorter, swears.



***


Cael Inkfinger didn't want to wake up.

Oh, on some level, some day, he did. But right now? Waking was the last thing he wanted to do. He wasn't even sure why. He just knew, subconsciously, that -upon waking- he would discover he was somewhere he didn't want to be; far from the...

the...

...

Where had he been, again, before this? The Inkmage's eyes - warm in a head that felt as if it was stuffed with cotton - squeezed further shut as he tried to think. Where had he been? He had the last few lasting images of a dim tavern in his mind - drinking, maybe? Was this a hangover? - but anything beyond that was fighting his touch. He reached to rub his chest without opening his eyes, wincing at the sore burn in his sternum and the hot, taut feeling of his cheeks. I don't remember Corone being this hot...

There was a sour taste in his mouth, beneath the layer of grit and dust, and his left ear itched, burning, begging to be rubbed like his chest, but he shoved physical sensations aside for a moment, pouncing on the stray thought with almost manic glee, ridiculously relieved at the return of this small fact. Corone, that's where I was, Corone, and I was...

I was...

...

Oh, right.



***


Those thoughts loosed the floodgate to his memories, hearing fateful conversation echoing in his ears; heavy-laden with foreshadowing that the present had blinded him to - sitting at the counter in a darkened tavern, the smell of bad food, worse beer and unwashed bodies crushing down on him; his empty pocket rather obviously planned to keep him from food and drink even at a place this cheap. The full mug at his elbow, the plate appearing before his face - well. It all seemed a little too planned. A little too convenient. But, then, this was future-Cael, yelling at his memories - and hindsight is always twenty-twenty.

The bartender, innkeeper, neither or both (whichever and whatever he had been) had jerked a thumb to the left, through the crowd of bodies, as Cael grabbed for the bowl hungrily. The bowl smelled rather pungently -beef and some sort of very strong spices was what he had told himself, hopefully, the tongue and stomach's method of sticking their fingers in their ears and yelling 'nah-nah-nah-nah-nah, I can't hear you' to his brain. His brain was saying dogmeat and cabbage - but three days without food? That was more than long enough, alright. "'e bought if for ya."

Cael just looked over, seeing no-one of interest, and nodded vigorously, mouth full. "Mhm, mhm, very nice of him," He managed once he swallowed a bite and it (miraculously, a sign of his hunger) stayed down. "I'll go say thank y' after 'm done eatin', yeah?" He took a gulp of the beer before driving his fork back into the meat on the plate, rather wishing that the 'tender would shove off and leave him in peace.

"Don't yew wanna know who 'e is?" The bartender was watching him devour his food as if he had never seen a man eat before. Cael-as-the-bearer-of-memories let out a soft, hoarse groan as Cael-of-the-past just eyed him, one light-gold brow raised. He finally placed the fork down on the bar, mottled fingers lacing beneath his chin. He fixed the bartender with a look of mild interest, drawling slowly.

"Fine, then. Who is he, since you're s'obviously simply dyin' t'tell me?"

The bartender was either a wonderful gambler, or didn't realize that he was being treated like a fool. "That'd be Jui," He replied, rotund belly puffing up with some form of paternal pride.

"Jui." Cael answered back, deadpan. No doubt some local celebrity, washed up and relying on charity to stay in the public eye. He turned on his chair, casually, to glance back down the bar. "Y'don't say. Honestly?" The only glimpse he could catch of this elusive benefactor was the top of his bald head.

The bartender nodded vigorously, polishing the closest mug - Cael's still-half-full mug - with a dirty rag. Weak beer splashed out over the edge, but he paid it no mind as Cael scrambled to move his notebook out of the way of the encroaching liquid. "Aye. Jui."

"And why," Cael replied, rather snappishly, picking his fork back up and waving it at the bartender, bravely (and stupidly) ignoring the little voice telling him softly that this was a bad idea. "Am I supposed t'give a rat's pajamas about this Jui?"

"Because," replied the bartender, the soft-and-senile look in his narrowed gray eyes disappearing with alarming speed. "You remember that little opinion of yours, Cael Inkfinger?" Oh, gods, he knows my name, that's never a good sign "That lovely little three page article about corruption in the Corone Armed Forces?" Cael sat up a little straighter, mouth hanging open, blue eyes startled, wide and trapped. His stomach sank though the floor at the words. Oh hells-teeth. The crowd between him and Jui was parting, water on either side of a jagged bolder, sheep around a wolf. Jui grinned as he stepped forward, silent; his thick arms crossed over a barrel chest, bald head and straight teeth and the naked blade on his belt all gleaming in the low light.

Cael swallowed hard, managing a weak smile as he felt the first fuzz at the edges of his brain. That, he thought, trying to fight the sudden wave of nausea, is a very shiny sword.

The bartender leaned forward on the bar, reaching out to take Cael's fork from the Inkmage's loose grip. "Cael, son, meet Jui, local branch of the Forces." He met Cael's eyes, his own smile polite. "You might know him better as Marshall Juian Turnbek. He has a few...disagreements on how you portray his men."



***


And that was about where his memories left, other than vague flashes of manacles and horses and cities; other than half-whispering snickers about 'tool' and something called The Citadel. He recalled - dimly, something read in a book as compared to something that happened to him - his drugged mental ramblings - Were citadels places of refuge, or places where people got sacrificed, or - oh, wait, that's a cathedral, not a citadel, a citadel's a fort - but other than those few, lightning-quick impressions, how he got here was a blur.

His stomach roiled, and he swiftly rolled to his hands and knees, ready to purge whatever was left of the drugged meal, when the series of little nagging sensations finally sank in: the heat, the rough, dusty texture beneath his hands, the pure silence. Sore, hot eyes flickered open reluctantly -

And the last remnants of fog and confusion dissolved like spun-sugar on the tongue, jolting him out of his memories and into a world of pure, blinding brilliance. Everything was white, everything was hellishly hot, and there was sand grinding into the palms of his hands. The foul taste in his mouth - the aftereffects, he had imagined, of the beer - was suddenly accompanied by the distinctive, dry grit of sand; and the rough powder coated the inside of his nose, the sides of his throat.

No wonder his voice had been hoarse.

Cael stumbled to his feet, rubbing sand from his eyes and trying to take in his surroundings all at once. He stood on the slope of a dune, the white expanse of a massive desert stretching out below and above him. He turned on his heel, watching in fascinated horror as the sand beneath his feet slid and trickled like water down the slope, the minimal breeze picking up grains and tossing them into the air in malicious, whimsical dust-devils.

He had turned a one-eighty before he saw the pyramid at the summit of the dune, a good long walk from where he stood, - a towering building of white-cut stone, looming hundreds of feet into the air. It gleamed in the sun, dazzling his already-sore eyes to the point where he had to squeeze them shut. When he finally dared to open them again, it was with a sand-dusted hand over his eyes, and a wary squint.

There was a doorway in the dune - a dark, square shadow, framed by two white pillars, opening onto an equally-white ramp. Cael paused for one moment to attempt to talk himself out of venturing up the hill - Too hot, too far, too dangerous - but the rudimentary mental protests were shunted to the side at the simple thought: You'd rather die in the sun? The answer to that was as simple as the question.

He was halfway up the dune before he heard the first sound other than the whispering rush of the wind - the crunching sound of footsteps on packed sand.

Halfway there before he realized with a jolt of unwelcome adrenaline that he was, more than likely, not alone.

Halfway there before he realized he was only in his undershirt and trousers - coat gone (thank heavens), pack gone (not so much), and no weapon. Lovely. He picked up the pace, not looking back - maybe he could get to the ramp before whoever it was got to him?

[Behemoth]

Living in exile had a way of changing a man. When surrounded by a culture that is not his own, the exile may revert to one of two methods of coping. First, he may throw away everything from his former life in the vain attempt to become one with the local culture. This exile forsakes everything that made him who he is and openly embraces whatever he sees around him, no matter how vile it is. The second option is quite the opposite. An exile trying to cope with a culture that clashes with his own may simply gather the things he grew up with tightly around himself like a cloak and refuse to let them go, no matter how vile they may be. You see, either extreme yields the same result; the exile begins living a life that he believes is righteous when in fact he may harbor the very evil he tries to stamp out.

Bhakti’mat Zu’ura lay atop a sandy dune, one of many stretched out across the desert arena that had been created in the Citadel. The landscape reminded him of his native home of Fallien; that was why he had agreed to enter the battle in the first place. The massive warrior clung to any vestiges of his homeland that he could, for he was a stranger in a strange land. Exiled from Fallien for killing an important dignitary and then angering the Mother further, Bhakti’mat wandered Althanas searching for his place.

The towering titan of a man believed that he had found refuge in the welcoming arms of the Citadel. As a border guard to the Land of the Gigases deep in the Fallien desert, Bhakti’mat had lived a life of unfailing loyalty to a militant race. Now that he lived the life of an exile, he had gathered that lifestyle around him and held to it steadfastly. He was a machine of death, a harbinger of destruction. Every breath he breathed spelled doom for his enemies. His time in the world outside Fallien had only served to make him more deadly. Abilities learned as a border guard, or Zalkhein as he was called, had been ruthlessly refined over the past few months.

Any who crossed his path would die, of that he was certain.

He saw his target stumbling in a circle not too far away from his position. The dazed man spotted the largest thing in the arena, a pyramid, and instinctively began walking toward it. Just as the Zalkhein had thought he would. He swung his legs over the side of the dune and scrambled down the slippery slope on all fours. His heavy leather boots protected his feet from the burning sand, but it scorched his hands as he scuttled down its surface. The loose fabric of his pants billowed out behind him in the wind, slowing him down slightly, but his prodigious weight ensured that he continued on his path. It took more than wind to stop Bhakti’mat Zu’ura.

The unfortunate man was several paces away and so the dark-skinned behemoth spurred himself into a light jog to close to distance. No weapons hung from his belt for the half-gigas warrior fought only with his own body. His punches were crushing blows that left men devastated and when his punishing kicks connected with flesh, they tore through it with ease. He was lethal just as he was; weapons could only hinder him.

He had been drawn to the Citadel for this very purpose. He centered his very being on the hunt, on the kill, and let its glory wash over him like a warm rain. He had been born to fight and the unsuspecting man before him was only the latest victim to his single-minded purpose. Bhakti’mat was a hairsbreadth away from his target when he finally struck.

Massive cords of muscle coiled in anticipation as his huge fist pulled back through the air. His legs tensed as he set them in a stance, one leg cocked ever so slightly to the side. Throwing his body into the attack, the gargantuan warrior unleashed his full strength on the man. From nearly six feet behind the man, Bhakti’mat stretched out to his full length as he lunged into the strike. If he had gauged correctly, his fist would connect with the man’s back just before he got out of range.

The half-gigas’ blood practically boiled in anticipation. This is what he had been born to do.

[Inkfinger]

It was, ironically enough, the terrain that saved the battle from ending then and there. Shadows loomed over Cael from behind - evidence of a large figure, as the shadows engulfed his own - and the ground slid out from under his renewed scrambling with a hiss.

I will never complain about snow again.

He practically faceplanted in the burning sand, hands slamming into the ground before the blow connected, softened and thrown off course somewhat by the fall. The punch hit upper arm and ribs instead of spine, but it was still enough to send him the rest of the way down, face-first into the sand with a choked-back, grit-filled yelp.

He didn't lay there though, desperation and adrenaline lending him strength as he rolled to his feet and spat furiously to clear his mouth. His arm and ribs throbbed from that one impact, the muscles there burning, unmistakably bruised. He caught a flash of his attacker - a hulking man, muscle-bound, a dark silhouette against the brilliant blue of the sky - before he lunged sideways to avoid the next volley of punches.

...with only marginal success. His leg seized, his knee spasming at the rapid motions. This was the most physical exertion he'd put his limb through since it had been broken, years previously. The hitch almost left his leg locked. He growled in mingled frustration and fear, and - gritting his teeth - focused all of his attentions on trying not to get his face smashed.

Fewer punches connected than his opponent would have preferred, more connected than he would have preferred and by the time they slowed Cael's entire body felt as if he'd been thrown into a tree, repeatedly. Sweat trickled down his spine - almost icy against the heat - and down the side of his face, stinging in his eyes and coating his lips in a throat-clogging combination of salt and sand.

He could feel the familiar shape of his pens digging into the side of his leg through his pants, but they were no use out here. There were Ink Mages who could write on the air itself, but he was nowhere near that level. His one hope would be whatever was inside that doorway into the dune; and that was still a good twenty feet off.

Cael's mind raced as he circled away from the hulking man who was (quite clearly) stalking him, not turning his back on him as he slowly began to limp backwards up the dune, the treacherous sand stinging at his bare heels. One hand crept into his pocket, closing around the smooth-worn wood of his biggest pen. Maybe, if nothing else, he could get at the other's eyes with it. Weren't the eyes practically everything's weakness?

With that thought in mind, he dipped his other hand into the sand, struggling to ignore the heat that crept into his fingers as he gathered a handful of the white grains and held it ready. His light blue eyes, already hazy with the dull, throbbing pain, remained fixed on his opponent - he was ready to bolt like a frightened rabbit at the first sign of forward motion on the giant's part.

"I don't suppose," he finally coughed, grimacing at the harsh rasp in his voice as he took one last step backwards, "That we could talk abou' this reasonably?"

Pens and sand and words against a man like this. What an absolutely brilliant defense.

[Behemoth]

Bunnying of Bhakti'mat approved
Like a startled jackrabbit his opponent carefully moved until he found an opening. Bhakti’mat sensed a slight jubilation in his enemy’s voice as he spoke; the man thought he had enough of a lead to make it to the tunnel several yards away. How wrong he was. “No,” the desert warrior responded simply to the man’s question. He knew only the fight; the thrill of ending another’s life, the pain of having yours crushed. The towering titan reveled in the lethality of his body, relished using every aspect of his might to completely and utterly overwhelm his enemies. This twig would bend before him, surely; but would snap in the end just like all the others.

His loose vest hung from his broad shoulders and rustled slightly in the breeze. The wind was at his back, a good sign from the desert gods. Even in this place, fabricated by the magic of the monks, Bhakti’mat felt their influence. Grinning broadly as his adversary crested the dune across from his own position, the Zalkhein launched himself into action.

Heavy boots pulled him forward through the sea of sand and he was halfway down the dune before his opponent made a move. Just like a jackrabbit, the dark-skinned behemoth thought. Bolting down the dune and out of sight, his opponent wouldn’t be able to tell where Bhakti’mat was. However, the half-gigas knew exactly where the cowering man would be.

With calculated steps, the Fallienite turned and raced parallel to the dune. His long legs carried him quickly across the sand and his practiced steps ensured that the shifting ground didn’t hinder him at all. He moved across the desert floor like a snake.

When he crested a dune closer to the pyramid, he smiled when he saw his foe cresting the same dune farther down. Both men were the same distance away from the tunnel now, despite the smaller one’s early lead. “Bhavan kim-kim karizyati?*” he whispered into the wind. With his enemy’s advantage removed, the dark-skinned warrior felt confident that the battle would be over soon.

*“What will you do now?” in Common

[Inkfinger]

No? The thought was almost piteous, Cael's shoulders drooping ever-so-slightly. But I asked so nicely... Motion - Oh hellsteeth, why's he huge and fast, that's not fair! - sent him scurrying, skidding and sliding through the sand, leg still twinging in protest, but (at least) no longer locked.

It didn't occur to him until he hit the top of the dune that he'd turned his back on an opponent. He whirled, his hands flying up as if to defend himself, pen and sand at ready - but he was alone. Confused pale eyes scanned the too-bright landscape before fixing on his attacker...

Who was higher up the dune - and the same distance as he was from that ramp. Cael cursed under his breath, rubbing the back of his hand - already reddened and sore - over his eyes. This wasn't going to work as well as he hoped. Instincts not so much 'honed' as 'awakened by desperation' screamed at him to take the offensive, to try and take the situation into his control. Fortunately, the less-reactionary, more sane portion of his mind told him to continue with his current plan: reach the tunnel, where there would be a surface to write on. The hot, tacky feeling beneath his ear and the red stains on his fingers were enough to let him know that ink, at least, wouldn't be a problem.

He bolted down the dune, long legs eating up the space between him and his destination. He didn't look back - don't look back, don't ever look back, looking back is bad - but he didn't really need to. It was obvious that his opponent had done the same, and was gaining.

He had just reached the ramp, worry - he's toying with me, he has to be - mingling with elation at the white stone's relative coolness beneath his feet when a strong hand snaked around his ankle, jerking him off his feet. He just got his hands up in time to avoid getting his teeth smashed against the ramp, and let out an annoyed howl, struggling to get to a position where he could stab at the giant behind him with the pen.

"Oi! Let go, that's cheatin'!"



Any Cael-bunnying needed is approved; sorry for the Brave Sir Robin approach thus far, but hey. We can't all be masters at unarmed combat. ;)

[Behemoth]

As his prey fled once again, Bhakti’mat was faced with a choice. The robed man clearly wanted to find the safety of the cool stone ramp; but should the towering titan allow him to make it that far? With long strides and sure steps meant to counter the sliding sands, the Fallienite raced across the dunes. His opponent struggled valiantly along the desert floor and the dark-skinned warrior felt a pang of sympathy. What is this? he roared at himself. Time away from Dosidica has softened you.

He’d let the man have too much of a lead; it would be hard to catch him before his feet felt the stone ramp. Heaving himself across the desert floor, Bhakti’mat Zu’ura strained to close the distance he’d foolishly allowed. Gritting his teeth as he lunged for the adversary, the behemoth was rewarded by a sharp yelp from his foe as his vice-like fingers closed on the man’s ankle.

Instinctively, the man lashed out at his attacker. The Zalkhein almost laughed at his enemy’s pathetic attempt at self-defense, but refrained from doing so. He’d allowed too much leeway in this battle thus far; it was time to end it. Hauling against the struggling man’s bodyweight, Bhakti’mat drew his opponent toward him. His robes man him slid easily over the smooth stone and the half-gigas barely needed to plant his feet to steady himself. This battle has drug on too long, he reprimanded himself. It was the man’s time.

Cocking a massive fist back behind his head, the brutish fighter grabbed the man by the collar. Hoisting him into the air so that his tiny feet reached for the ground in vain, Bhakti’mat stared into the eyes of his prey. Never before had he encountered so much trouble in eliminating a target. He’d always managed to detach himself from the battle; delivering judgment swiftly to those who deserved it. However, this man was different for some reason… Something about him made the bald combatant want to spare his miserable life.

“Samdhisamaya?**” he offered in a moment of sympathy, waiting on the man’s response.

**“Peace?” in Common

[Inkfinger]

Cael choked, sputtering as his collar was pulled against his neck, held aloft by his own clothing. Gods if that wouldn’t be an embarrassing way to go, strangled with a garment...

He kicked and flailed, trying to reach the ground before he was pulled to face his attacker, feeling his heart slamming against his ribs. Adrenaline, he told himself, straining to breathe against too-strong fabric. It had to be adrenaline – the alternative was terror; and no man likes to think that about himself. He couldn’t tell if the soft hissing noise in his ear was the wind over the sand or his own body straining to get the oxygen he needed. He rather suspected it was that last one.

The blue eyes boring into his own had an intensity that would have made his breath falter even if the massive man hadn’t been chasing him, and his size… Cael dangled there for a moment, cowed by the sheer stature of his opponent, before the massive man’s fist pulled back in an obvious threat. Cael cringed back as best he could, expecting a vicious blow – but it didn’t come.

Instead, his attacker spoke - one single, tongue-tangling word – grip still as firm as iron around Cael’s collar. The meaning of the word was uncertain – why didn’t I ever study Fallien? That sounded like Fallie-why am I thinking that at a time like this? – but the meaning of the fist was crystal-clear, as obvious and transparent as the sky above.

Why is he waiting? He doesn’t need to wait, he’s got me already. The only thing Cael could think was that this was another form of stalking – another form of waiting and watching and planning to hurt him worse. He didn't want to give the other fighter that chance...

So he moved first. One foot lashed out to slam against the giant’s chest, the other drove lower – fighting dirty in sand, is that fitting or ironic? – below the belt, though not without a slight twinge of apologetic sympathy. His pen hand shot out at the same time, slicing a thin gash across the giant’s face, grazing an eye. He drew in a labored breath and stabbed the pen inward, trying not to think about what the nib was hitting, willfully ignoring the entirely-too-slippery form of resistance that was so inappropriately different from paper.

The terrible grip on his collar loosened just as the pressure in his ear changed, tainting his hearing with a strange, high-pitched ring - but even through that whistle he could pick out the sound of a very angry roar...

And it suddenly sank in - with all the subtlety, grace and charm of a thousand pounds of very angry brick - just what a bad idea his last movement had been.