We ain't in Lhavit Anymore

[Rilliger]

1st day of Spring, 512 AV Sand in your eyes, in your clothes, and up your arse. . . Too much sand. Rilliger had left his home, Lhavit, for the beaches of Alvadas. He wished to feel the fine sand running through his pale hands. Oh, he got his wish for sand. But the water aspect didn't come with it. He had had all the water he needed, but he left it all behind because he thought he could survive out here. He figured he would find a trading caravan or shepards. Instead, he found sand. So much sand that he didn't really like it anymore. Even saying the word sickened Rill. Or maybe it was his dehydration that made him hate individual words. Rill had only left the other survivors for two days, yet it had felt longer. He had food to survive for several more days, but his water supply was rather low. His ignorance to the lands around him had tricked the teenager into thinking one waterskin would last a while. But he could barely spare a few drops at a time at this point; drink anymore and he might just finish it all off. Which would quench his thirst for the moment, only for it to come back full force in several bells. So Rilliger wandered aimlessly through the Burning Lands, his sense of direction lost. In the beginning, he searched for people. But as the time stretched out, he changed his search to finding water. No need to find people if he was near dead. But he was never designed to survive out here; the very reason why he had decided to travel north to Alvadas instead of to this wretched place. The teenager enjoyed buildings enclosing him. He cherished, now more than ever, the sounds of human voices. Who knew if he'd live to hear another voice? Rilliger shook his head at that thought, sending those negative thoughts away, along with some sand that was enlodged in his black hair. He wasn't going to die out here, where his grave would be unmarked and probably never discovered for centuries. He was going to find someone in this wretched place and travel to a nearby city. He would tell his story to anyone nearby to listen. He would live to craft his art. So Rilliger trudged on. He lifted his right hand up to his face, shielding the sunburned skin from the sunlight. At the moment he could see nothing except more sand. But maybe over the next sand dune, people were camping, resting. One could only hope. And keep on walking even if hope failed them. So Rilliger did just that

[Cantrip]

Every journey had its twists, its jostling, abyssal sways on the brink of discovery. There wasn’t always a reason. There was, but just ostensibly. The vagrant wasn’t always lost, just devoid of an unerring cause, trudging through the tawdry vagaries of nomads. The crazy-maned, grousing caravans dogged by mendicants, by jackals, ever cleaving to the rut of cart wheels through the sands. To either side, dunes plunged like peaks, crested by the hazy liquid of a mirage.     And always, the sun beat down. The grit was a furnace, clogging lungs, baking tender skin to lobster. The dry flecks just sloughed away, borne by scouring gusts, thinly chapped fingers. There was a glint of bones, shod by rust. These wastes were a charnel yard, not just of the unwary, but vaguely of entire cultures. There wasn’t anywhere else for the bones to go. They lingered, just beneath the surface, polished smoothly gray by the shifting sands. There was often the jut of bleached timber, lashed by a scrap of faded rag. They rose by the scrub, inhospitably. But today, they’d come for him. That was the augury, the cast of so many bones on a larger scale. He’d inevitably find himself taken by perishing thirst, flesh snared by the beaks of vultures. He was carrion, just like everything else. He trudged, but for now, every step, every slip was like an inky scrawl through a sea of cracking, vestigial parchment. As ever, it began with the wind. The sky grew darker, yet it wasn’t jet. There was a field of jet, fringed by magenta, by deadly umber. The shift was steady, yet violent. There wasn’t anywhere for him to go, except perhaps scrape at the grit, scrabble at the jumbles of ruddy boulders. The gusts came, lashing the stinging, burning sands into his eyes, trying to divest him of that outer husk of cloth. The terrain was uneven, perhaps leaving some way of escape. There was a low ridge of rock, rising to a squat butte, and beyond it the snaking depression of a wadi, long dry. There were pocks of calm, and in them, he’d surely discern the scything pillars of sand, like a hundred cyclones in the distance. The effigy of so many giants, making the ground tremble. Their fury made the bones strip away, rising from the dirt. They were already flying, jouncing away from his face, his shoulders. They were like shrapnel, too dulled to cut, yet heavy enough to raise lumps. There’d be no respite, for now. The pillars were like giant whirligigs, vowing destruction over the desert. Their jaws open, ravaging. They neared. Slowly, yet inexorably.

[Rilliger]

Growing up, Rilliger had never considered the wind a bad thing. In fact, the wind was a relief. Working with his father on the farm, Rill often wished for wind as respite to the humid weather. And even if it wasn't hot, Rill would still sweat, and he would still wish for the wind. He just never wanted it calm as he toiled in the useless work that he didn't want to do. And sometimes, if Zulrav felt generous, he would provide the slight breeze that cleansed Rill of the beads of sweat. It cooled off his body was that was exerting effort in things he disliked. The wind was what kept him going; the cool breeze his motivation to keep him going. Because he knew, sooner or later, that same breeze would still be at his back. But then he'd be on a boat, leaving the farmlands behind for the more exciting things of life. But what Rilliger was facing wasn't exciting, nor was the wind a relief as he trudged onward. Quite the opposite, as the wind whipped up more sand into his eyes. Plus with the diminishing light, Rill was finding it harder to see. But the day couldn't have passed by so quickly; it wasn't too long ago when the sun was still pulsing above Rill, burning his facial skin a darker shade of red. Looking up, the sand still whipping into him, he noticed that the skies had gotten darker, with lighter shades surrounding the jet black sky. Was this what a desert storm looked like? If so, Rill liked it better when the sun was burning him. But his likes and dislikes mattered little to the land around them; he wasn't even sure if his opinion hadn't angered the desert, causing them to whip him harder with the sand. Which did hurt, even with clothes covering the majority of his body. Rough sand whipped across the bare skin of his face and neck, whipping his hair back to even hit the skin usually covered by his locks. When he lifted his hand up to feel his raw skin, he didn't feel cuts. No blood spilt onto the sand either, but whatever injuries the sand were causing petching hurt. They almost felt like welts. Sunburnt skin and welts were not something he wanted travellers to see him with when he found other human beings. If he even found any travelers out in this weather. They were probably bunkered down, whether in a natural structure they found, or even tents. Rill had a tent in his backpack, but he doubted he could even get it out to set it up. And what if he did? What if he someone how set the tent up, and huddled inside of it, knees drawn to chest? How many chimes would he have his shelter before the sand whipped it away, leaving him without no shelter anymore. No, he needed to find something better. Something more than the boulders he had come upon while walking through sand. Even they did not offer him any protection. He needed something more. He could see very little when the sand was whipping in his eyes, but it was during one of the calm pauses did he find his solution. Off in the distance there was a flat hill, a butte, along with a ravine, a wadi. Long dry, but that still meant that water had run there. Maybe the water source was underground, and accessable? And if not, the rocks ahead could possibly provide shelter from the sand. That was where Rill would head, but it seemed he had a problem. He wasn't the only one racing to the same destination. And his adversary was slightly more. . . intimdating. Pillars of sand, too many to count, were heading towards him, slowly but surely. Whatever he had faced earlier, those cyclones would be more powerful by ten-fold. And unless he got to that butte, he was standing out in the open, just waiting for the sand to tear his skin off with their whippings. Rilliger was fond of his skin; good skin made it easier for people to look at you when you told a story. He needed his skin. He needed to live, and facing those pillars mano to mano meant one mano would die. And he would be that mano. So Rilliger began to head towards the hills, hoping to get there in time. And even with the inevitable trouble ahead, Rill just couldn't help but prepare the beginning of his story. The story about how a lone man faced dozens of sand cyclones, all seeming to rush at him at once. And that was only the beginning. . .

[Cantrip]

Tepidly, the pillars crept closer. They were far-flung blurs of grit, though even so, they sang far swifter than the wanderer’s meager cadence. The whorls of scouring sands preceded them, and before this colossus of fury fled many others. The squat, mangy gray of goats surrendering their stony bluffs and buttes, dappled redrock formation beyond the vague swirl of sand, the vomit of bones. There weren’t many left. They hadn’t found a place to shelter in this mess of hardpan, and now they only faced butchery. The yowls of jackals were like spears. Their packs tearing asunder, invisibly.  Even the crows fled. Caw, caw, caw. Their shrieks battered at his ears, above the groan of the nearing tempest. Their tawdry plumes mixing over the sky, deftly evading the bone shrapnel with a mockery of ragged feathers. There was a mercurial, furnace blast of ruddy sand that chafed at any bare flesh like a flash cooker. The blazing blister of heat was on his face, turning it red and angry, each sucking breath the near agony of molten flames. They were glazing to glass, puddling over his skin. The grains furled away, revealing yet more gray bones, the shreds of torn, bleached cloth. The goats, were they even goats? Though he’d fled for the hills, he’d also entered a rift in the veil of reality. There was a coruscating madness in this, augured by the raving of crows. The heat was like a spill of wine, making him drunk. There was a whump, a shaking of earth, and in the distance, he’d surely glimpse the furl of a vast, gray column of gas breaking from the ground like a sordid tower. The concussions began to multiply, spewing up great boulders that jostled asunder, make the ground buckle and tremble, carved vast rifts in the wake of his frenzied dash. Abruptly, a goat veered into his way, all jerky hair and ungainly limbs. The groggy impact made them both sprawl, jarring over the carpets of bones and crushed red rocks. Yet even as they tumbled, the goat sembled. The thing rose, unbending from a shaggy pelt to reveal a man’s lanky form, his dark, angular face a tracery of white paint, broken by ruddy hues. “Mine,” he laughed. “Mine,” the grin breaking, incisors swept away into a cloud of dust, then his hair, his face, his body, leaving only a bare skull, tinged by a jade glow. Mirages. But not. There was a flicker, and then he was clad in flesh again, gibbering in his strange tongue. The forks of his fingers jabbed at a sternum, forcing him toward a seamed tangle of rocks. The pelt scraped against his legs. Beyond them, the low hump of acacia whose bare, splaying branches thrust up to the crazy miasma of sky, was ripped bare by a plague of locusts, their spiny carapaces slicing over flesh, threatening to render it a bloody drapery of ribbons. Then its bark detonated in a brutal explosion, crushed by a flying boulder.

[Rilliger]

As Rilliger trudged onward to safety, he couldn't help but realize that if he died this day, he wouldn't not be the only one. When vision was possible, he could see death all around him. Animals, which he though were goats, were butchered by the funnels of sand, skinned ripped from bones, which were then thrown around the desert. The howls of jackals could he heard, calling out their pain and suffering. All around him, death claimed the desert born. And if they died in the place where they should survive, how did Rilliger have any chance. If only Rilliger had the ability to fly away like the crows scattering. They evaded the funnels with their only loss being a few of their tail feathers. And here was this human, stranded on the ground, where the only thing he could perform like them was cawing. Which he wouldn't; no need to spend your last few chimes alive cawing like a crow. And Rill wasn't even sure if he could possibly do anything but walk forward. The bare skin of his face and neck were on fire from the pain as sand pelted it, and he couldn't get a cool breath. His lungs felt as if he swallowed ounces of sand, his throat on fire and in need of a sip of water to soothe it. And whenever there was relief from the onslaught, Rill saw only bones and cloth. Wait why cloth? Goats didn't wear cloth. He wished to ponder this, but he could not. The calls of the crows filled his head, not allowing any other thought to be processed. He felt drunk, the heat forcing him to stumble like a drunkard as he moved forward. But this didn't prevent Rill from seeing what was going on around him. He witnessed the grey column of gas spewer up, along with the others that erupted afterwards. What Rill had thought to be a simple sandstorm turned out to be so much more. But what exactly was it? He was so caught up with his thoughts that he didn't notice the goat until he collided with it. Rill went stumbling backwards onto the sand, landing roughly on his arse, but his eyes weren't taken off of the goat. After it shifted to the shape of a man, there was no way he could take his eyes off of it. The man, white paint on his face, laughed at Rill, and muttered the word Mine twice. What was his? But not question could be brought up, as the man's skin just. . . disappeared. Slowly his face turned to dust, blown away in the storm, leaving only a skull with a jade hue to it. Rill sat, shock on his face, wondering what he had just witnessed. In Lhavit, he had learned of mirages, fake images someone say in the desert. Was this what a mirage was? Whatever it was, it wasn't over. The man's returned, and he had his flesh again. He muttered in a language that Rill was unfamilar with, so he just sat there, with the storm all around him. He didn't know how to react what was happening, so he only watched. And then the man touched his chest with his fingers, and Rill scooted back. Which must've been the man's intention, as he kept it there until Rill came upon a seam of tangled rocks. His pelt rubbed on Rill's legs, and it felt real. But was it? By now, Rilliger didn't know if he wanted to stand. With rock at his back, he sat unnerved by the turn of events. Why was this happening? He was only sixteen, wanting to live a life telling his stories and exploring the world. And now he was in the middle of no where with some goat-man with little chance at living. His eyes noticed the tree exploding by a boulder, but he didn't flinched. He merely sent up three words, for anyone to hear. Human or god, it did not matter. He just wanted his wish to be furfilled. Let me live.

[Cantrip]

Brutal, those lofts of grit. Unruly trays of bedrock chided hardpan, bursting asunder under pillars’ looming fury. There wasn’t shelter, even behind boulders. Their spines, twisted, broad, or trenchant, bowed under the assault, skidding away. They rolled, ripped up furrows of dirt. The gases swirled their discord, rising in caustic choke. Faraway, a stepped butte was engulfed by a pillar, its coating of brush and scree instantly pulverized. The grist swept up, like a shower of fiery stars. They beckoned to him, their prophecy incarnate. This upheaval wasn’t privy to the curtains’ fall, just rumbled with shrieks of peril. Rough fingers, dimpled and flecked by grit, tightened around furls of grubby tunic. “This..” Red molars gated, grating in a harsh grunt, nearly vanishing in the crazy tumult. “This… not far…” Tarry pools forced up, nearly hidden under hanks of motley goat. They fixed his eyes, partly squinting behind delicate ridges of lashes as the cyclone tumbled layers of sand over skin, leaving them both covered in red, like banished creatures of the earth. They were glassy, like obsidian. Forcibly, the goat-man jerked at a collar. He tugged it near, thinly braided muscles using paler flesh as mooring from the turbulence. “Far…” There was a teeter, a crack of a rock exploding nearby, ejecting caustic plumes of gas. Then he gave a shove, and they struck the sand, rolled faster, and faster down that drift of sand. Humped like a tower, it budged at the initial, buckling clap of baked ground. The quake forced them up, flung among a debris of boulders. Everything was a queer, burning chaos. Even the colors were myriad, betraying a rift of power. Like a serpent, the drift began to slither, shaking them from its flanks. They plunged, as on the flume of vast, ocean waves, jostled against ridges of creaking rock. These were like ships, groaning and splintering under a greater fury. They gave, broke asunder in showers of bone-rock. Trapped, there was only a frenzied scrabble. The dull roar was intensifying, eradicating any other noise, nearly deafening enough to perforate eardrums, to send trickles of sticky, red blood spilling away, if those cavities weren’t already plugged by grit. Above, a crest of rocks gave way, sank with a tidal groan. The vibrations of disaster shivering through bone. The goat-man looked up, lips parting. The shriek didn’t come, for his throat was already filled. But with a final, desperate brushing of limbs, he jolted them to the side, inside the jaws of a fissure in the rock. The jaggedly slanted covering was a manifold jigsaw of petrified boulders, which grunted and squealed, chunks sloughing away and shattering like pottery on the floor. They kept the worst of the sands at bay, but even here, safety proved elusive.