When the Dust Settles (Closed to Erikar and Faust)

[Alkor]

Days turned into months, then years. Fast fading memories of his family returned only in a drunken haze, and the disgraced son of the Kiljak family recoiled at the mere mention of a father. To the lone barkeep he counted as his friend, Alkor muttered a barely coherent warning from time to time. He never expounded on why he refused to talk about his past. All anyone knew about the man at the bar drinking his life away was that he made it his life's greatest work.

Tattered and hanging like sloughing flesh from his shoulders, the ratty and ancient black cloak flowed atop his plain looking brown overcoat. In the harsh environment of Fallien, one had to be careful to dress appropriately when the situation prescribed. His latest job, which was to be as part of a small caravan guard through the desert, was one such situation. Alkor was by no means a people person nor was guard duty his preferred line of work, but money had become tight and he had jumped in desparation.

Yet here he sat, drinking the last of his coin away. "Another," he slurred, staring hard at the bartender who's gaze said 'you've had enough,' though his hand still poured the drinks and offered them. This Kiljak fellow was the sort who did not need to say he was troubled for someone to know it. The sword hanging loosely at his hip was also a deterrent to the concept of refusal; the barkeep had no desire to see if Alkor kept the blade sharp.

"You planning to pay for all this?" The bartender asked skeptically, smirking as he polished off an empty glass. "I don't run a charity, you know."

Tossing his emptied tankard over the bar, Alkor snorted. As the bartender jumped to catch the falling flagon, the inebriated man called to him. "Haven't missed a tab yet, 'ave I?" Reaching into his coat pocket, Alkor produced enough gold to pay the tab, and looked over what that left him. 200 damned gold to his name.

Caravan guard! The very thought of the job made him sneer, dealing with people. With any luck, they would be mute, or deaf, or stupid. Perhaps if they died, Alkor could make off with whatever fortune they had, and it would spare him the chore of human interaction. Thinking like that was tantamount to murder, however, and frowned upon in most countries.

He didn't bother to tip the bartender; he never did, as was their unspoken agreement. He always came back to drink more, and the money always went straight into the elderly man's wrinkly damn pocket. Standing abruptly, the drunk squinted and focused on the far wall, waiting for the shaking to stop.

"Are you going to be alright swinging a sword if you're set upon by bandits?" The question hung in the air for several heartbeats as Alkor shook off the burp that churned in his stomach and let it ring out loudly. Turning about, the swordsman cocked an eye and assessed the barkeep.

"What say you keep the guard duty to me, and you stick to pouring swill, savvy?" He replied in an almost even voice, swaying forward and leaning on the bar. "But if there are any damn bandits, I'll cut off their tiny little sacks and knit them into mittens for you. How's that sound? Bloody lovely, right?"

'Ballsack mittens? How drunk am I?' He blinked, astounded by his own inanity.

"Any way," Alkor said, hand flying over his mouth to conceal a sudden onset of the hiccups, "I'm meeting my contact. An old business associate. Bastard said the pay was good. If he lied to me, well, you may not need to hold on hoping a bandit crosses me..."

Shaking his head vehemently, the drunkard tried to assuage some of his drunkenness. He needed to be at least sober enough to function properly, should the need strike them. Staring through the doorway, Alkor watched in silence as the shape of a caravan approached. He fumbled around in his pocket for the map...

Where the hell was that map, again?

[Faust]

He shed his traveling cloak as he stepped through the door, pausing for a moment to scan the tavern with emotionless gray eyes. Not the worst he'd seen, by far. The tables were roughly hewn and the floor was little more than splintered planks, but it was clean and well-lit and relatively free of sand. A damn sight better than a few of the establishments he'd frequented in the past. Only a few of the tables were occupied, but that would change quickly once the caravan arrived.

After the massacre of his company nearly a year ago, he had become used to silence and solitude. The constant lowing of camels and incessant shouting had finally rubbed his nerves raw, and he'd ridden ahead to meet their final recruit rather than endure it any longer. Erikar, the senior guard and the man who had hired Faust, opted to accompany him on his "mission" despite Faust's suggestion that he handle this recruit alone. They'd set the meet to take place at a tavern, after all, and Alkor could be a handful when he'd been drinking.

Then again, an extra blade at his side could never hurt, and from what he'd managed to glean- both from other members of the caravan and from the senior guard himself- Erikar knew how to use his. It was obvious he was an experienced caravan guard, as well. He lead easily and kept his men coordinated and disciplined. Faust almost pitied any bandits they might meet.

Faust had entered just in time to hear the last of the exchange between Alkor and the barkeep, and despite his profoundly lacking sense of humor he couldn't keep a wry smile from his face. It vanished when the slender man turned to face him, replaced by a look of placid contemplation. One hand resting lazily upon the pommel of the nondescript iron sword sheathed at his hip, Faust nodded in greeting. "Right at home, I see."

Briefly he recalled his warning to Erikar just before they'd arrived: "Kiljak is unpredictable, it's true. He'd as soon put a knife in you as shake your hand, and he's smitten with the drink. He is, however, one of the most skilled swordsman I've ever had the displeasure of meeting. He'll be an asset to us, I've no doubt, but he must be handled delicately."

Now the ex-mercenary exercised none of that delicacy. "Are you sober enough to discuss business?" He queried, strolling over to an unoccupied table and seating himself. "We leave at first light, so let's get this settled, aye?"

His gray gaze shifted between Erikar and Kiljak as Faust contemplated what was to come. Avoiding toll roads and instead crossing the desert could save the merchants forming the caravan a heap of gold- enough to make three sell-swords' salaries seem a pittance- but the danger could be great. There was no way to tell what they would encounter during their journey to Irrakam, but the pay was decent and Faust had exhausted all other options. Besides, perhaps his earnings could give him a fresh start.

If that failed, at least it would buy him enough women and booze to strangle the memories of dead faces beneath his boots.

[Erikar]

Erikar had been conversing with Faust, a rather arrogant and monotone ex-mercenary, for the greater part of the day. They swapped stories and strategies, conversation flowing easily as they rode. The expressionless man grew irritated as the day went on, finally snapping when the caravan leader shouted at him for about the fifth time that day to keep his eyes open. He instead opted to ride ahead, hoping to meet their last comrade long before the caravan arrived. Erikar, who reciprocated the man's feelings, volunteered to accompany him. The Fallieni merchant had a way of getting on people's nerves, with his loud voice and obnoxious comments. They had ridden for almost an hour before they finally laid eyes on the tavern.

Faust had quickly spotted his associate, inviting them both to sit at the table he now occupied. Erikar ordered a cheap ale from the bartender before joining the ex-mercenary and the drunkard warrior at the table. He sipped his drink, enjoying the cool feeling as it trickled down his parched throat. The taste of citrus muted the bitterness of the ale, leaving an enjoyable flavor in his mouth. He pondered for a moment as the trio assessed each other.

The drunk man, although he reeked of sweat and stale ale, had a dangerous air about him. In that respect, Erikar's new acquaintance and this inebriate were the same. The hilt of his curved sword looked worn and well-used, matching the sheath at it rested in. He looked the type to keep the edge honed.

Erikar decided to break the silence.

"Alright, I'll assume you're Kiljak. Nice to meet you. The name's Erikar. Faust has told me a bit about you. I'm glad to have another experienced hand with us. Most of my men either left or died last time we passed through Fallien." Erikar grimaced as he explained his misfortune. Fallien was an unforgiving land. The stifling heat and scarcity of water made survival a challenge, if not an improbability.

"On to the important business. I'm not sure what Faust told you, but Hassan is a Fallieni merchant. He's one who's less suspicious towards outsiders, but he can be rather irritating. If you can manage to tune him out, we should have no problems. We're transporting a moderately sized cargo of wood-based goods. Weapons, paper, ornaments, the like. Unfortunately, Hassan hates boats. He hasn't stepped foot off land since last year, when the ferry capsized and all his goods were fished out waterlogged. This means we'll be traveling through the desert. The journey should only be about about three days, give or take. Make sure you're well-provisioned, and your water skins are full."

Erikar spoke sagely from experience. The lessons had been ingrained in him well over the past few years.

"Hassan gave me freedom to hire whomever I deem fit. He trusts me, and I don't plan on breaking that trust. Accordingly, that means that you two will not plan on breaking that trust. If you cannot abide by that, you can make your way to Ikkaram alone, after we appropriate your water, of course. More importantly, the path through the desert is home to local bandits. We usually take a longer route to avoid them, but Hassan lost a lot of money on this last investment. He's being impatient and told me he'd rather die by bandits than lose his best opportunity for profit, so we're taking the road less traveled."

"Damn Fallieni merchants. They'd sell their nuts if they weren't attached." The drunkard, Kiljak, deadpanned.

"If Hassan didn't have such a penchant for whores, I'd be inclined to agree with you. So, Kiljak, pretend Faust hasn't told me anything about you. I'd like to hear what you have to say about yourself." Erikar inquired amiably.

[Alkor]

Upon the arrival of Faust and his colorful friend, Alkor lifted his mug and took a long drink. The grating question of sobriety clawed like nails on a chalkboard, echoed by the sour expression on Kiljak's face. "I'm still sitting up straight, ain't I?" He peered through one half opened eye at his tentative friend, not bothering to give him a full look over. "Make yer damn point and don't patronize me about my bloody booze."

With all this prattle, Alkor was surprised he had the restraint not to yawn loudly. In the business of making money, it was always too early for bullshit; sadly, every contact seemed to be full of dung. His gaze did not leave Faust as the other man began to speak, and with a grim nod, Kiljak acknowledged the Lead Caravan Guard.

"Get on with it," he grunted as the man who introduced himself as Erikar made the pointless connection between Alkor and his surname. Occupational hazards seemed to litter these sorts of jobs, evinced by the almost alarming death rate of former employs. Alkor had shame enough to blink.

"The quality of hired help never ceases to amaze," he muttered, spewing an acrid burp and not bothering to cover his mouth. The dangers surrounding the contract meant less to him than the money involved from partaking, so he tried his best to remain civil throughout Erikar's exposition on the details of their duty. He finally managed a glance in the guard's direction midway through the spiel about treachery, leaning forward to place his face within several inches of Erikar's own.

The putrid aura of alcohol that Alkor emanated was nothing short of offensive. To anyone but a seasoned drunk, this man reeked of the drink like a skunk smelt of foulness. His gaze was shockingly unwavering, almost chilling. "Long as his money's good, your employer will never have to worry about becoming a head shorter. Barring that," Alkor sat back, placing his drink on the table and glancing out the door once more, "none of us has to worry about inevitable backstabbery."

Several moments passed as Alkor sucked in a harsh breath, then looked back at Erikar and considered the question. "I don't put much stock in words or promises," he told the man, glancing over to Faust with an appraising look. "And I don't like threats, 'specially not unwarranted ones. Telling someone you're like to strand them in the desert gets them thinking about how they're going to shaft you first. It's best not to lead with that," he offered in a callous monotone. "You need a man guarded? Killed? For an adequate sum, I'm your man. But don't go thinking you need to give me warnings or threats because you smell booze on my breath."

The sun was gone now, and stars were painted along the sky like splotches on canvas. Standing abruptly, Alkor scooped his mug into one hand and walked to lean on the door's frame. He stared skyward in silence.

As the commotion of the bar raged on behind him, the consummate drunkard let out a sigh. How had it come to this? Working with a Faust would be bad enough; the devilish windbag loved nothing more than pissing Kiljak off, and Alkor knew it. Now though, Alkor would be dealing with an entire group of windbags. Erikar was proof enough that they liked to talk.

Fingering the hilt of his tulwar, Alkor shot a loathing glance toward the pair that constituted his new partners. It was going to be the longest three days of his life. In the desert, alcohol would kill him; this job would him to switch out his normal drinking habits for ones suited for hydration and survival.

"I swear," Alkor shook his head, glancing back out toward the moon,"I won't be surprised if none of us make it back alive." His muttered words drowned beneath the crowd, all Faust or Erikar would comprehend of his last comment was the sarcastic smile on Kiljak's lips.

[Faust]

He met Alkor's gaze evenly as the drunkard and the Lead Guard seated themselves alongside him. Unable to conceal the flicker of amusement that danced through his otherwise dull gray eyes, Faust sagged backward in his chair and observed the exchange between the two men. He'd heard the Lead Guard's spiel half a dozen times already- could've recited it word for word, if necessary- so he let his attention turn to studying Alkor. It hadn't been more than a few months since their last encounter, and it was apparent little had changed. The familiar stench of sour booze wafted from the diminuitive warrior, compounded by the odor of stale sweat and filthy clothing. His eyes were bleary and clouded, yet pierced by twin pinpricks of rapt studiousness. Drunk or not, Alkor didn't miss a thing, and his tongue was still as spry as ever. His comment on the greed of Fallienni merchants prompted a faint smile that didn't touch the warrior's eyes.

Faust's thoughts drifted to the task before them, and the slim chances of success that the trio faced. He didn't have much more than a cursory knowledge of the land or its people, but mutterings among the caravan and the other guards had been enough to arouse a gentle sense of foreboding in the young warrior. Normally bandits and highwaymen were little more than fodder for a seasoned military veteran, but out in the desert where water was scarce and civilization was nonexistent, he reasoned things could swiftly take a turn for the worse. Yet he had no intention of backing out; the pay was too high to consider passing up. Smirking humorlessly, the swordsman decided that perhaps the merchant Hassan was not alone in his greed.

Alkor suddenly leaned across the table, and Faust's attention snapped back to the conversation at hand. Ever the observer, he simply looked on as the drunkard responded to Lead Guard's not so gently delivered threat. He'd received the same warning when Erikar had recruited him, but had brushed it off with a shrug of his shoulders and a muttered, "We'll see."

His gaze lingered on Alkor's back as he stumbled away from the table. When he was out of earshot Faust turned to Erikar and raised one eyebrow. "That went well." The tinge of sarcasm in his voice was misleading; as far as he was concerned, any conversation with Alkor that didn't end with drawn steel had gone well. No doubt traveling with him would be difficult, and most certainly unpleasant. Still, if it came down to it, Faust would be glad for his sword.

Erikar didn't look so sure, though. Fixing the Lead Guard with an appraising stare, he spoke more quietly. "He won't betray us...not unless you give him a good reason. Just make sure to keep him away from Hassan. If the merchant wags his tongue too much he's apt to lose it."

Standing, the ex-mercenary adjusted his swordbelt and cast one last, searching look around the tavern.

"Let's go," he clipped, suddenly decisive. "This dung heap is giving me a headache."

[Erikar]

Draining the last of his ale in one quaff, Erikar stood with Alkor and followed Faust out the front door of the inn. He squinted his eyes as the blinding sunlight assaulted his vision, sighing when the wave of blistering heat met his pale face. The air shimmered from the heat rising off the dunes, which stretched endlessly in every direction. 'This is going to be a long trip..' He predicted, already feeling trepidation about a possible conflict between his tactless employer and the drunkard.

The loud, low-pitched gurgle of camels at the end of the small settlement's lone road heralded the arrival of their charge, as though summoned by Erikar's thoughts. The redheaded youth strolled towards the hitching post, where Faust had already mounted his beast of burden. Alkor stood next to him, lounging on the wooden beam next to Erikar's own camel. The young Lead Guard untied his practiced highwayman's hitch with a quick pull, freeing his mount. The tan beast lowed with satisfaction, apparently anxious to be on the move. The ginger boy smiled, his feeling's mirroring the camel's own.

Hassan barked a harsh order to stop at his own beast when he reached the trio, glancing over at the new addition with disdain. He curled his lip and spat on the ground opposite the guards, then turned to face Erikar.

"You done wasting time, yes?" The brown-skinned man inquired with a sneer, his accent almost unintelligible in Tradespeak. He was only speaking in the common tongue to let the new guards know of his irritation.

"Yes, yes, Hassan. No need to get snippy." The boy answered with weariness, already tired of the Fallieni merchant's attitude.

"Good, hurry, we go. If you three fight as well as you laze, we have no worry!" Hassan chuckled condescendingly at his own joke. If the brash man kept this up, Erikar couldn't guarantee his own toleration of his employer, much less his associates.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, plastering his fiery hair to his skin. The salty liquid dripped down into his eyes, blurring his vision as he walked to the middle of the caravan line and picked out a dark brown camel for Alkor. The desert animal followed Erikar without protest, only showing apprehension when the youth handed the reins to Kiljak. However, it must have enjoyed the smell of stale liquor, as after a quick sniff of the warrior, all its reservations disappeared.

Erikar mounted his own beast, and with a great clinking of buckles and chains, the caravan was on its way.

[Alkor]

"Easy, Bessie," Kiljak murmured as he mounted the beast; he had never been fond of horseback travel or any manner that robbed him of the ground beneath his feet. His unease was not abated by the shine that the creature had taken to him, nor the lick it had planted up the right side of his face. "Devil steed," he muttered, barely audible. Still, a camel that did not require steady sustenance would make the strain on their bodies much less. Alkor decided he could live with that tradeoff.

Hassan was a strange man, his flesh a much darker shade than Alkor's own. They shared that Fallien heritage that clearly marked them in tone, but the acerbic alcoholic had traces of something else. As the Caravan ambled over dunes and away from civilization, Alkor eyed their "fearless leader" with a skeptical eye. "People die in these sands," he remarked offhand to Faust, not far behind him, and the drunk spared a glance back over his shoulder. He made certain they lagged far enough behind to remain unheard. "The money may be good, but stay on your guard. Merchants only get willing to part with heftier sums when they're going through the deep sands."

He didn't wait for Faust to ask what that meant. "Several manners of creature stir in the belly of that beast," he continued. A sweaty hand dragged across his lips, and he snorted. It would take a little more than hellish heat and alcohol induced dehydration to drop the mighty Kiljak.

Some water would be nice, though. He uncorked his jug, filled not with booze, but pristine water he had harvested during their discourse. The clear fluid flowed over his lips, and it spilled onto his chest with a refreshing chill. "It's not bandits we'll be worried about soon enough, Faust, lad. It's the desert herself. Heartless, cruel and unforgiving harlot, she is."

He anticipated the silence that would come from his acquaintance, both eyes closed to blot out the sun. He preferred a more silent approach to life himself, and so appreciated the sentiment from Faust. Erikar, however, he was uncertain of. The other man may have caught bits and pieces of the warning he had not shared with the rest of the crowd; Alkor was uncertain that he wanted any of them to know more. "More than like, we're to be bait for something terrifying," he sniffed. The morbidity in his words spurred a sneeze from his mount. "I didn't say anything ahead of time because it didn't bother me, but you ought to know." With a pat to his blade, Alkor focused his gaze straight ahead. "When the chips are down, that Merchant'll fold his tail underside his arse. I've met men like that before. Be ready for anything."

The distance on any side of them was an expanse of coarse sand, and sunlight reflected off the surface burned his eyes. Alkor kept his wrapped arm high to vanquish the heat, but he still needed to squint in order to see. He swashed the spittle in his mouth about to retain moisture, and he swallowed it afterward. To waste water was a sin in the heart of Fallien.

He stroked the neck of his camel as they slowed for a moment, and called ahead. "Why are we slowing down?" He grimaced and muttered beneath his breath. "Keep moving. We're not yet a day's march out." It was true; they had gone perhaps an hour from the small outpost before the Caravan ground to a halt, and Kiljak was more than justified in his confusion. "What the hell," he spat, and he dismounted.

The area ahead split off into two distinct directions. To their west, Alkor noted the darker sand and windy sky. "What the hell," he repeated. "It's a fuckin' sandstorm," he told them. "They happen frequently in the bloody desert. We can't go through it, or we'll be buried."

"Idiot sellsword," Hassan snorted, "Hassan knows sandstorm obstacle. More useless information, have you?"

"I'll show you useless information, you sandy fuck," he scathed, but before he could draw his Tulwar, Erikar had a hand on his wrist. The Caravan guard matched gazes with Kiljak, and the drunkard relented. "Someone ought to carve out the bastard's tongue," he seethed in a low voice so that only Erikar would hear.

"He's paying you to keep him alive," the bright haired boy reminded Alkor. "You can bite back the urge to swing your sword around for a few days, can't you?" Without another word, Alkor broke his gaze away and looked to the Northeast. The azure of his eyes seemed tot darken.

"The Deep sands," he scowled, his gaze glowered over a pallid plane of bone white. "Your man is damning us, boy," he warned. "We'd be better off braving burial."

Kiljak wrested himself free off Erikar's grip only after the young man was certain Alkor would not attack the merchant. "It's a three day march to Ikkaram by this route," he told the Lead Guard. "Much quicker, aye, but you'll be left wondering if it were worth it by the end."

Alkor offered no more than that, and his lips sealed shut.