Quenching the Thirst

[Aryr de Morte]

The air got even hotter as Aryr stepped off the boat to meet with his soldiers. The entire continent was scorching he had heard. Like the deserts of Gha on his home continent of Eulaea, the ground was sand for miles upon miles as far as he could see. It would indeed be a long march to Irrakam. The soldiers that he was supposed to have met here weren't anywhere to be seen, did they resent being commanded by a foreigner?

If they didn't show, Aryr would have wasted far too much time despite the fact he didn't have any real destination. He hoped that he could gain a reputation and begin his eventual involvement in much more devious affairs. Salvar would be the first to fall to the glorious House Morte. But first, he needed to command this elite troop to victory over the forces assaulting Irrakam. Their landing had been exact but they were a bit early, perhaps the Falliens were extremely exact in their arrival timing.

Aryr looked back at the small dwarven man, Rith. He had met him in the port while on his way to find the pier, it had been sheer chance that the man mentioned he was looking for some work. The commander shifted attention to the lycanthrope that had came to save Doji Ki from coming along instead. He seemed even less fit for the weather than the dwarven man. The fur that covered his body would get him hot, but he had insisted on coming along. They would both be put to the test soon enough.

"I need my own fucking men here..." Aryr muttered to himself. He found himself cussing to himself more and more often the longer he stayed away from the battlefields back home.

Aryr walked back up the ramp to gather his things for the march to Irrakam. They would hopefully find some shelter in between should nightfall hit too soon.


About an hour later...

The winds had picked up quite a bit and Aryr couldn't see more than half a mile away. That was a frustrating event for a commander who needed to see as much of the battlefield as he could. Messengers took time, conditions on the battlefield could change by the time they got back.

Aryr sat on the bow of the fairly small ship they had come down on waiting for the Fallien forces he was supposed to meet. Judging from the position of his shadow he figured it was about midday.

These soldiers better be here-- Aryr saw five figures in the distance, his sight was blurry because of the scorching wind but they were carrying shields. Were they the troops? Aryr would have to wait and see.

As the figures approached, Aryr observed that there were a lot of them, not only five men. They were walking in tightly knit rows. It was rather odd, usually soldiers walked to make themselves look large and strong but these men were hiding their numbers. They all looked the same, too. There was nothing different from one of them to the next, all wore no helmet, a drab tan outfit, had a large wooden shield and carried either a spear or a sword. They were almost to the boat and Aryr decided to jump down. He would let the men get situated and drink some water from the boat before they marched to Irrakam.

"Greetings men, go to the boat and drink from the barrel. We'll set out after you're hydrated and rested." They all saluted and took turns going onto the boat until all of them had a drink. Hardly half the barrel was gone, they knew how to conserve, "is everyone ready to march to Irrakam?"

They all nodded, no chants, no hitting their weapons on their shields. Just nods.

"How many are there here exactly?" Aryr looked around, one man stepped up to answer.

"One-hundred and ninety-one, Commander." The man stepped back into the group.

"Let's march." Aryr was slightly worried about the intensity his troops lacked. They didn't look the part of an elite unit. Regardless, Aryr would make this battle a slaughter to remember.

[Dirge]

The sorcerer shook his head. Long locks of elegantly sleek hair danced with the harsh breeze. Overhead the sun was beating endlessly across the scared lands of Fallien, taunting and teasing. Not a cloud in the sky to mask its face either. Shade was a commodity just as much as water was, both rare and immensely valuable. Instead of either, however, all that the half-elf got was a mouthful of sandy air, and a horrible cough.

"Fucking sand." Vigo kicked it fitfully, watching as a small drift caught the wind and carried it towards the nearest troop. He wouldn't care, fuck, none of them would. The halfling took pride in the creations that spawned from his twisted mind, delighting in the macabre scene before him. The men were the epitome of the cultists wicked magics and cruel minds, a culmination of the desease that plagued their minds and their morbid pleasure. A sly, toothy grin surfaced across his bony face, contorting his thin lips into an almost rodent like sneer.

Each soldier stood between five foot five and six feet, average for the Fallien people. They were garbed in their traditional studded leather jerkin, bracers, and gaiters. In each ones hands were light spears, five feet from tip to point, and a common sword at their waists. All in all they looked little different than any common troops found in the desert wastes. The major difference was that they were completely composed of sand, firm and extremely detailed sand.

Somewhere close by, only the high up cultists (and Vigo) knew exactly where, were the sacrificial pits. The wells of sorrow, as they were called, were the focal points for the new addition to the cultists militia. From them were spawned the husks of sand that harbored the consciousness of the martyred soldiers. The bloody pits were growing in size, no longer creating paltry forces of fifty to a hundred, but multiple hundreds. The force assembled before Vigo was one of the paltry ones though, a lackluster assembly of barely seventy warriors.

As the sharp winds whipped through again, tearing at the edges of the halflings tattered cloak, he turned to one of two only other living being with him. He was an actual member of the cult, a sorcerer of the sun. His hair was soft, very light brown, and streaked with gray. His eyes were a stony blue, harsh and yet a little comforting. Whatever is said about being able to see to ones soul through their eyes, Vigo did not want to see into this guys.

"We have only half the force, correct?" Vigo waited as the wind whipped up a dust flurry, watching as it spun and vanished. His partner said nothing, instead his dull eyes remained fixed on the horizon. "To all hell with you Garrik! How about you fuckin' listen and respond once in a while. I was put in charge of this stupid ambush, and you haven't once given me a real answer to any questions I ask you."

"Mmhhmm," the man responded, nodding his head as he stroked his rough goatee. Again it was not an actual answer, but it would do for now. The other half of the forces were with the other "leader", some fan wielding doll from Akashima. Vigo did not know what he had done to deserve the position, much less when or where he had come into play. He was relieved anyway to know that he was the true person in charge of the little mission, and that the Tiago Jaer was at the mercy of his whims. "I think they'll be here soon."

"Great," the sorcerer turned and dropped a hand. Almost instantly his warriors dropped with it. Their feet slipped beneath the surface and continued till only the tips of their head were visible. Behind the small dune, it would be impossible to see them. It was wonderful knowing that the sand warriors were so versatile, knowing that they would be able to withstand most attacks. Those attacks that they couldn't withstand, those were the ones that the army was designed for.

They could be killed and cut down to the hearts content of the opposition, only to be restored as soon as they returned to the tainted sands around the pit of sorrows. What a twisted little shock troop they had created!

"Nero," the halfling called as he squated to wait the approach of the enemy. The other true being was a young but powerfully build man. He looked a lot like the sand warriors, but from a different culture altogether. Nero, like Dirge, was not a native of Fallien and they both showed it. However, the man was very skilled with his arms and the sorcerer had instantly accepted him as a personal bodyguard. "Ready yourself too, I'll be joining the assualt and don't want anything to touch me. See to it."

[The Archer]

If Seth Ad'huast was sure of anything, it was that Fallien was way too hot. To make matters worse, his thick black fur seemed to want to suck all that heat in. He growled irritably.

If Ki hadn't rushed into Aryr's organization, the were-fox would still be in Akashima where it was cool enough to make the warm fur feel good. Now I'll be shedding all over the place. The only reason I came here was to keep Ki from getting into it. That child thinks he's a warrior...and where he's from, he may well be. But I'd rather not risk orphaning those kits that small...apparently, I'd rather risk my OWN pelt.

The lycanthropic archer let out a grumble that sounded like another growl. He was miserably hot, he didn't like war in the first place, and to make matters worse, he was starting to shed.

At least it's a new moon in a couple of days. It'll be cooler then, without all the fur, and it'll grow back short.

He didn't even like the two "commanders" he was stuck with. Aryr thought he was destined to rule the world, or some such. The dwarf, on the other hand, had seemed so enthusiastic about coming when he boarded the boat, but now seemed more sullen than the werefox himself.

He shook his thick ruff. Now that he was here, it was just his job to get back home to Ki's den in mostly one piece. If he could face down a wolf demon lurking in some den, what was a little war? Especially since the war was roughly equal, and the fight that had sealed Ki's affections for him hadn't been.

Seth marched along with the rest, not really caring that he'd be in charge of roughly half of them. He wasn't a strategist, he was an archer. If the kid lost this war, it wasn't really any skin off his nose.

[Nero]

He reached up, coiling his calloused fingers around the neck of his spear and thumbed the edges. Flicking the pad of his finger across the tip as to make one final check, a small grin tugged at the corner of his lips. It was common for him to do so before such a job, it filled him with a applicable feeling even though many would die. He wouldn’t mourn, a man of his trade wasn’t fit to mourn; it wasn’t good enough. Let the families cry and weep, he always told himself. He’d be silent in his reproach.

Craning his neck to the right, Nero leveled his abyssal gaze of the sea on native warriors behind him; uniform, but inglorious in his eyes. The Praetorian was a perfectionist, snarling as he redirected his attention infront of him and continued to oversee the battlefield soon to be. Above him the Fallien sun blistered the landscape, distorting what little he could see in the distance. He arched a brow and cocked his vision upwards, challenging the star with an intense stare.

“Lovely day,” he muttered to himself as he cupped his hand around the burning orb above. “And it’s all mine.”

Grinning to himself, Nero let his arm fall to his side as his spun on his heel and started walking towards the frontline. As he observed them, he quickly came to the realization that each soldier resembled one another, almost meticulously. Almost creatively appalling. Shrugging, Nero quickly fastened his helmet over his head before snatching his spear from the sand and continuing his stride towards his latest employer. Vigo is what he called himself, a half-elf with a taste for the arts, and a significantly marketable choice of words. A part of him wondered if he could trust the mixed breed given his choice of tradesmanship. On the other hand, Nero knew that would have been irrelevant in all regards if the pay was true.

“Nero,” Vigo called to him. “Ready yourself too, I’ll be joining the assault and don’t want anything to touch me. See to it.”

With a quick nod, Nero glanced over his shoulder once more and surveyed the landscape ahead of them. It almost seemed perfect in it’s entirety, prestigious. A flawless birthplace for a legacy to be born upon. A chill ran down his spine at the thought before he stopped abruptly and closed his eyes.

“Warriors of the Fallien sands,” he proclaimed heroically. “You’re about to waste your day amongst a sea of heartless recreants.” Nero said in reference to their enemy as a tool for morale. “Fortunately, you have been blessed with the duty of cleansing them from the face of Althanas.” He turned on his heel, and leveled the tip of his spear at their faces. “Your ancestors shall embrace you with honor should you fall, and glorify you in fame should you live. Be merciless, and return home with your spears stained with their blood, or let them return home with your spears in their bellies.”

For only a moment he stood there, stoic, allowing his words to sink into their heads before delivering yet another sharp nod and rolled back around to the battlefield.

It was only a matter of time.

[Rith]

It was hot, blazing hot on where Rith stood at the bow of the boat as it approached the southern tip of Fallien where they were to set anchor. There was really no distinguished port to land at, but why would there be? There was sand, sand, and more sand as far as the eye could see. The sun was high in the air, probably about noonish, with only a cloud or two in the sky. Rith figured with this sort of weather it was bound to just get even hotter. Rith couldn’t comprehend how that Fox was even going to survive a day's walk in the desert without the risk of collapsing from heat exhaustion.


Half an hour later…

As soon as Aryr stepped off the boat he seemed rather pissed that the troops weren’t here. Rith doubted they would show and that this whole ordeal was for nothing. He dropped everything back in Corone after meeting with Aryr in one of the local taverns. He said he was to embark on an adventure, war, whatever it was called to this place. Rith decided to join along, but he was in it for whatever the rewards were of course, and also that he was bored and wanted a change of scenery for awhile, though he was clearly unaware of how dull this was and that he was already sick of the hot, sandy continent.

Rith didn’t bother getting off the boat for awhile, but he did head down to his quarters to gather his few belongings he brought along with him after returning to his home before departing. Of those things he carried two small pouches containing a bit of explosive powder, his axe, dagger, bow, an empty satchel, armors and quiver. Aryr hadn’t discussed exactly what Rith was to be doing except that it was to involve fighting.

Rith set what belongings he brought along the deck of the ship alongside the rest of the cargo that was to be taken off-board. Rith instructed one of the sailors to keep an eye on Aryr, Seth, and Rith’s personal cargo and to see to it that their things were not to be touched or that his captain would have him lashed.


Another hour passed by…

The troops finally arrived, but they looked anything but “elite”. Dressed in some tan drab, carrying wooden shields and a sword or spear, they looked no different than the ordinary soldier. The only particular thing about them was the fact that their formation made it seem there were few of them, but that was a mere misconception. They either had endured extensive training as none talked, there were no chants, or even movements to break formation unless directed, or they were scared shitless.

The men drank water as instructed and took a break from the march to the landing site. It wouldn’t be long before they departed and made way towards wherever it was they were headed, Irkham, or something along those lines.

Rith draped his chainmail over his shoulders, strapped his quiver, satchel, and bow across his back, and grabbed his axe and walked off the boat. He walked to Aryr’s right where they both observed the troops.

I damned sure hope these bastards can fight.

“Let’s march”, came the order from Aryr.

[Anila]

Sand. Lots...and lots...and lots of it. Everywhere. What was the logic behind coming here? 'Hey, I just helped make a treaty that will benefit an organization that I joined on a whim and really don't know that much about, so now I want to go back to my original intentions and travel the world!' Why did I think Fallien, of all places, would be interesting? All it is, is hot. And sandy. Oh, and the natives like to fight even more than some of the pompous aristocrats back home do. En masse, instead of just having individual duels. How much fun is that? And, on top of that, why did I get involved in this battle...or even get put in charge of a regiment?

Sakurazuka Anila Miyu gazed out at the Fallien desert, comparing the starkness of the desert, the "pristine beauty" that the nation boasted of, with the cool, lush greenery of her native Akashima. So far, it did not compare favorably.

She and her maidservant, who stood behind her, wore sand colored robes and cream head coverings, to prevent themselves from burning in the sun. They'd been easy enough to procure, being made from a cheap local cloth, and they weren't uncomfortably hot. Anila's even had sleeves wide enough to hold her fans, Hagane and Uindo.

It wasn't much longer before a messenger arrived, and without a word between them they started back to the main encampment. She had half the army with her, and the other half belonged to some half-elven vermin man.

With a regular army, she'd have taught them a kata and learned some of their fighting style...earned some respect from her men before leading them to battle, whether to victory or defeat. This army, however...was not made of men. It was made of sand. It wasn't alive, and she didn't need its respect to have its obedience. After all...the illusion of a life was something more than the brutal reality that was death. And it was an illusion so easily shattered.

Anila figured she was having an easier time with these "men" because she was a woman -- dark eyed and dark haired, even though her skin was fair. She looked the part, in other words, even though she was short. But in her bearing and motion was flawless grace and power -- so long as she didn't falter, she would have the respect of the few living men around.

Sitting at the stone planning table she'd set up for herself and her advisers, Anila removed her head covering and looked around.

"What news?"

One of the men stood to speak. "The opposing army has been spotted. Its leaders appear to be outsiders -- a boy about your age carrying a spear, a furred creature with a bow, and a dwarf. Their forces number just under two hundred. What are your orders?"

Anila leaned back, a slight smirk crossing her perfectly formed lips. "For now, we bide our time. Let them march to us. Their warriors are made of flesh and blood, and will tire rapidly. Should the other commander send a message, I am to be delivered it personally and immediately. You men know where I will be waiting. Until then, go about your business."

When the men nodded their obedience, Anila stood, turning away from them as she covered her head once more, defending it from the Fallien sun's brutal blasts.

Let us just win the battle, and I'll be out of this country and back to my own agenda. Why did they even want me, to begin with? Oh, this little Akashiman girl that's only ever helped forge a trade alliance will make a WONDERFUL leader of men in combat...let's just see how it goes...whether they were right...or wrong.

Her hands rested on the smooth grips of her fans, but she didn't draw them. There would be chance enough to shed blood if she went into combat herself...which was fairly unlikely, actually. Not if her "men" did well.

[Aryr de Morte]

Marching.

These Fallien warriors didn't stop, didn't rest. They knew how to tough the desert, when Aryr got close to one of them he couldn't even slightly smell the stench of sweat. The Eulaean was sweating, that was for sure, he probably reeked of it. As he looked back to the lycanthrope and the dwarf he felt sorry for the both of them. They probably weren't used to this kind of heat at all. He hoped they could perform rationally under these stressful conditions and hoped that he himself could perform optimally as well.

All there was, was heat, sand and no water. They only had what each warrior brought with them, and they only used it if necessary and not very much. Their faces were getting pruny, their skin almost wrinkly from the lack of water. There was a river, but these men had obviously been away from it for quite some time. They didn't look strong, the assumed dehydration ravaging their bodies. Still, they marched. Not a single one of them stopped until Aryr stopped to ask them a question.

"Could anyone tell me if there is somewhere for us to stop and rest on the way to Irrakam, I don't want anyone in non-optimal fighting condition." Aryr turned to the men in back of him, every one of them stopping immediately. Only one stepped forward, the same one as before.

"The ruins lie between us and Irrakam." The man stepped back. His answer was short, concise. Aryr liked these men more than he admitted even to himself.

Again they marched.


Nearly three hours later...

Even from what must have been a half hour's walk away, the Eulaean could see the ruins. They weren't as crumbled and weak looking as he assumed they would be. The buildings still stood tall, just battered and broken in places. They gave off a menacing and eerie feel. Aryr thought they must have taken years to build them all, even with one-hundred men working on each of them. They were a sight to behold and would provide good cover for the night.

Aryr turned his attention to the dwarf and lycanthrope, "Are you two okay? Don't worry, we'll be resting in the ruins for sure. I can't take much more of the heat." The soldier hated how much he sounded like a worn out Eulaean farmer saying that, but it was true. The heat was getting to him and probably his companions who were used to climates on the other side of the scale. The sand wasn't easy to march through either, sucking down Aryr's feet every step. It almost felt like gravity was pulling him down that much more as he trudged through the desert.


Nearly a half hour later...

Finally they were able to rest. The buildings of the ruins were incredible in their proportions, whoever made them was filled with greed, and the funds to do it. Either that or they held slaves, Aryr didn't know his Fallien lore well and could only guess as well as Seth or Rith could.

Aryr beckoned the men into a group of buildings that would hopefully be able to house them all. The soldier went into one and lay down quickly, hoping to swiftly fall asleep while gently prodding his lip piercing with his tongue.

He needed to get the word to Irrakam that help was on the way. Rather than sending a Fallien soldier as a messenger the Eulaean thought it would be best for Seth to go and perhaps get some much needed rest in Irrakam assuming he made it. Aryr approached Seth who looked beat and miserable, "Will you go to Irrakam, tell them Aryr de Morte sent you to report to the Jya or nearest officer that help is on the way?"

If all went well, in the morning they would march to Irrakam.

[Dirge]

The shade the ruins provided was a small boon. The army had been waiting, patiently guised beneath the sands. They reminded the sorcerer of sharks he had seen on his voyage to the sand pit. Their heads protruded slightly from beneath the surface, just like the sharks fin, but he knew his troops were far more deadly. Another smile passed over his sharp features. He could only wait for the action; he was more than ready to see the men in battle.

But it was a long time yet before the first column of enemies appeared on the horizon. They moved in a small formation, tight and quick. He could not guess their numbers, but by the trail of dust that was kicked up he could assume there was a good deal of them. Vigo strain to see his sharp eyes, his brow furling up tightly as he tried to look further than the desert would allow. Through waves of heat, which rolled endlessly off the dunes, he could tell the men were headed straight for him.

“Good,” he thought as he leaned back against the wall of a worn and battered ruin. At the tips of his fingers was a small cigarette, its tip letting off a small waft of acrid smoke. He brought it to his lips and inhaled as he thought. “Now I won’t have to go after them, nor will I have to force Nero to fight in that blistering sun. I doubt even he would be able to stand it very long.”

After exhaling the bitter smoke slowly, the halfling turned and looked to Nero. The man was prepared, fierce, and had an air of power about it. It was not often that the sorcerer took interest, much less respected another, but this one was a little different. He was the perfect bodyguard, the perfect champion for the man. “Nero,” he said after inhaling. As he spoke the smoke puffed out of his mouth with each syllable. “When they get a bit closer, we are going to go about with the plan. I’ll have a messenger sent to Anila, she’ll know what to do and when. I don’t want to have to fight him out there though, so let them get a little closer. I’ll have the sand warriors back out for now, make it looks like it’s just you and me.”

He laughed out the last bit of smoke that lingered in his lungs, trying to keep his laugh despite the harsh cough that tried to escape. His eyes watered slightly, and his face contorted. But it felt good. Vigo lifted a finger, and in response one of the hidden warriors rose. “Go to Ms. Miyu and tell her that we are going to go through with the plan. It appears they are headed for us, so we will be able to carry it out much easier than originally thought. Oh, and make sure she knows what she is supposed to do… I don’t want any damned fuck-ups.”

Again he laughed, but this time much more quietly. If the plan went along as it should he would have the enemy general at his knees, begging for mercy. He would also have all his troops worried and worn from their march, not near up to par for fighting against the sand warriors. Oh how he loved when things just came together, it always made life that much easier.

[The Archer]

Good gods in the blue skies above, it was wonderous to get to the Ruins and rest. The werefox found a source of water, cupping it into his hands and lapping it up greedily before splashing some into his fur.

Before he'd been bitten, he had been a native of Salvar. He was used to the cold and frost...was comfortable in it, even. As a man, he'd have felt miserable in this desert hell that was Fallien. Now that he had black fur covering his entire body...

He'd only been marching a few minutes before he'd felt like he was on fire.

Sighing, the lycanthrope skulked through the shadows of these so well-preserved "Ruins," looking for a cool spot to lie down and rest. Finally he found it, inside, in a dip in the building that had probably served as a show house or a fighting rink.

Whatever it was, the stone was below the level of the sands, and felt cool under his belly. He let a sigh escape his big frame as his thoughts drifted from this accursed sand waste and back home to Akashima, where he'd settled in with Doji Ki and her kits.

What did I get myself into, Ki? he asked himself. I know I promised you I'd return home...I just hope that I can. I've never really gone off to war before. But still...like I said...stay home and protect your kits...our kits, I guess, even though I didn't father them.

The fox's ears flopped downwards as he shifted, his tail coming over his nose, more to preserve moisture than to keep it warm.

I'll come home, Ki. I promise.

His eyes closed as he tried to rest. Hopefully the night would be cold enough for his comfort.

The werefox's ears twitched slightly as a boot scraped against the cool stone of his refuge, and he lifted his head as the whelp's voice -- Aryr, the leader -- echoed dimly.

At first it didn't quite register, what he was being asked to do...a combination of the miserable heat and the long march across desert sands -- but mostly the heat. He'd crossed more forest in a day than they had desert without feeling anything more than minor fatigue.

How he felt now...sick, like he just wanted to purge and lie still. But maybe motion would be good for him. The were-fox shook out his thick ruff, letting some air circulate against his feet, never taking his eyes -- one black, and one green -- away from the boy.

"I'll head out tonight, when it's cooler. Deserts roast flesh during the day, but temperatures drop to near freezing at night. That's perfect traveling weather for me."

The boy stepped forward, trying to tower over the still-resting fox. "We march to Irrakam tomorrow. The sooner Jya knows that her reinforcements have arrived --"

Seth interrupted the young man's show of command with a languid yawn, letting his muzzle open and his tongue curl out. He followed it up with a stretch and a shake, and was slightly amused to see the Aryr's thinly-veiled anger at his insubordination.

"Listen, kid. I'm not a warrior by any means, and I'm just along to make sure you didn't call in my lover for this. I'm going to be completely honest there. I don't care if you win or lose. I'm a humble man of the wilderness, and my wilderness is forest and snow. Sand isn't much different than snow, but it's really hot during the day. To run ahead as a messenger would certainly kill me in this heat, and Irrakam is a good three days' march away. With a full water skin, I'll be able to run most of it, and make the trip probably by the end of the second night. I'd arrive in the morning, and you in the afternoon or evening of the next day. I'm not going to kill myself trying to get a message through, not when I know I can travel better at night. Get some rest, kid. You need it as much as anyone."

"When songs of this battle are sung," promised Aryr slowly, "yours will be mentioned only in shame."

"Good for it," muttered the were-fox, settling his head back on his tail as the whelp turned and left him.

~*~

As the sun went down and the sliver of a moon rose over the Fallien sands, Seth let out a relieved sigh. Already the desert's day-time heat was receding, and a chill crept into the air.

He stretched, cracking every joint in his back, and then shook out his ruff, much more comfortable.

He checked to make sure his water skin was full almost to bursting, and took a long drink before nodding to the young whelp that thought he should have been hours gone.

A slight chuckle escaped him and he started off at a jog, lowering himself to all fours as he went into a run. It felt good to let himself loose like this, to be a free creature of the night without the fear of being hunted down like a dog.

Little did he notice as the winds picked up...

Around midnight, that mistake became evident, as the winds whipped up sand all around him. The were-fox had to trust that he was still on the right path. This was like a white-out...he couldn't see in front of him, and he couldn't afford to stop lest he got buried.

He felt like he was choking, breathing in the sand, more sand than air, and when he dared to sip at his water, there was more sand than water, the little granules making their way into his mouth like bitter sugar.

Without shelter around, he had to keep going...and going...

One foot...in front of the next...each step closer to home...wait for me...wait for me...

He knew the dawn had broken when the air around him started to heat, but the day did not abate the fury of the storm as it lashed against his pelt, and he struggled through.

By the time the second night broke, he was exhausted, still traveling as fast as he could toward a destination he didn't know was there, but this was a bad storm, and seemed to follow him like a curse.

As the moon set, an hour or so from the dawn, Seth's fur fell out in patches, his tail vanished, and his features resumed their human shape, at least until the moon began waxing once more. He howled in pain as the sands lashed like millions of tiny whips against his now-bare skin, but still pressed on.

The winds started to die down as the second dawn broke, he collapsed, lacking the strength of body or will to continue forward.

The storm, fury finally spent, died gently down, leaving the scoured and bloody man half-covered, prone, in the quickly-heating sands.

He didn't even have the strength to look up and see his goal, less than three hundred feet from his outstretched hand.
Bunnying of Aryr approved, Izvilvin can feel free to bunny whatever he needs to out of Seth, this is my outro post for this character.

[Izvilvin]

((Big apologies for the wait.))

When Seth opened his eyes, a black face with snowy white hair was what he saw. Relaxed, pensive eyes returned his gaze, opening wider as Izvilvin watched the man wake.

“Awake,” the Drow announced to the doctor at the other end of the room, across a sea of clean, white beds. Izvilvin returned his attention to the newly-conscious, bandaged lycanthrope and put a reassuring hand on the humanoid’s shoulder.

“You weren’t out for long, you should get as much rest as you can,” the doctor said. Dressed in white garb and with a tanned, stubbled face, the man presented an image of experience. “Before that, though, what were you doing lying in the dawn sun? If our noble Drow here had not found you, you’d have been buried alive!”

Seth’s emerald eye glistened in the window’s peering sunlight, the ebony one looking more brownish. He was clearly exhausted, but in much better shape than he was even a few hours ago. “My thanks to him, then,” he said, eyes washing over the face of the sitting Drow. “I’ve a message from the ruins that help is on the way, please relay it.”

Izvilvin got the gist of it. Looking to the doctor, he said quickly “Tesso l' Jya vel'bol nindol nesst uriu telanth. Wun l' draeval Usstan orn inbal Mazoo plynn uns'aa ulu mina.”

He nodded to them both, knowing the doctor would take care of informing the Jya. He, meanwhile, had to gather his things and see the closest spellcaster friend he had, Mazoo Lichten.

Convincing Mazoo to transport him was a difficult feat – that is, until the Drow’s eyes narrowed. The bouncing wizard’s spell was a long one, but presented Izvilvin with a portal wide and tall enough for him and his horse to pass through. It was an easy way to save him a long journey, and one he appreciated. Mazoo deserved a valuable trinket whenever the Drow could next afford it. With merely a nod of thanks to the human, Izvilvin passed through the portal and found himself instantly by the ruins.

As he remembered them, the ruins stretched out for miles and miles, the remains of what he understood to be a remarkable civilization. His eyes, mighty as his heart, confirmed the incredible size of the remains – not even he could see their end.

He could hear nothing but the soft hiss of sand over sand, grains whisked over the ground by the gentle wind. It pushed his hair over his face, but not his eyes. Atop his midnight steed, Izvilvin carefully scanned the ruins for those he sought. It would take him some hunting to find them, he realized, so he began.

Soon the sounds of conversation called his attention, and then Izvilvin could see the soldiers. So familiar they were in unison, but individually he knew none. It was early afternoon when the warrior rode into a ring of wide, short buildings that created a circular awning effect, the perfect spot for a camp. Atop his horse, Izvilvin wore his enchanted Delyn chestplate, as hard as metal but nearly as flexible as cloth. At his side was Icicle, half unsheathed so as to bathe him in cool, rising mist. His wind daggers and four sai were tucked into his belt, the remainder of his weapons left in his room.

“Greetings,” he said in the common tongue. Easily recognized as the only Drow living in Irrakam, the majority of the soldiers knew him. “Jya has your message, gives thanks. Gre'as'anto, al'doer. Peace, welcome!”

He dismounted nimbly, placing toned arms across his armored chest. He stood with such grace that he seemed unreal, with balance perfect and confidence reflecting off of him like the sun. A serene, gentle smile was on him, though, granting the Drow an elegant beauty a soldier rarely had. Soldiers that weren’t Christina Bredith, anyway.

“I am Izvilvin Kazizzrym. Qualla izin uns'aa ulu plynn dos ulu Irrakam. The winged ones be stopped!”