The Prodigal Mom Returns (Zak)

by **Monarch** on June 8th, 2011, 2:01 am

Timestamp : 32nd of Summer, 503 A.V.

Surprisingly, there were some similarities between Eyktol and Cyphrus. One would not think it, but the rustling sound of wind rushing through the grass could be easily taken for the sound of wind rushing through the desert. Both regions could get very warm during the long summers, and both regions were extremely dangerous to traverse. They were small similarities, but it was enough to prevent Zakita from going insane simply by crossing the border between the two regions. It was enough to shake her mother to the core, and she was a native to the desert.

Shrahri licked her lips momentarily, surveying the golden dunes around them before bowing her head and returning to the task of guiding her mount. She rode upon her old Eyktolian Desertbred, who looked more comfortable than her at the surroundings. Lami had suffered in the Sea of Grass, but now the old horse was back in it's comfort region and was thriving as a result. Shrahri craned her head about to glance back at her daughter, and frowned slightly as she stared at her daughter's mount. The strider had bonded to her two years ago, and while Shrahri did not disapprove of the bonding, she did not feel that such a horse was suited for the desert. In the Sea, the plains were wide and ideal for riding. In the Burning Lands, the ground shifted beneath you, always turning and twisting about even as you walked upon the defined paths and roads of the desert.

"Keep up, child." She announced, turning back about to face their path. "Our land waits for no one."

Their path, winding and twisting down from the border towards the main roads of Ahnatep and Yahebah, was shared by a travelling caravan of merchants. It was these people that had originally traded with the Diamond pavilion, and they provided an opportunity for Shrahri to escort her daughter back to Yahebah in peace. They were no Benshiran tent, but they were desert folk nonetheless and were charitable as well as kind. The Benshirans knew how to survive in the desert, and many others had adopted their customs if only to live a little longer in this hostile enviroment. With this group, Shrahri hoped to make it across the entire desert in relative comfort and safety, and perhaps get some other opinions on the pressing matter of her wayward daughter.

Another horse rode up beside Zakita and Zeitgeist while Shrahri pressed on ahead, leaving her daughter to go speak with the caravan master. This new horse was sturdy, and the owner equally so. His white garments hung loosely from his bronzed skin, a turban draped haphazardly over his head. He was nothing if not worldly. "Do not mind her." The man announced, speaking in a rough and quick accent. "It is hard for those that return to this land to fit in as well as they used to. It's as difficult for her as it is for you."

by **Zakita** on June 10th, 2011, 3:30 am

Surprisingly, while the endless sands and gritty wind did nothing to alleviate the child’s fury at being removed from what had finally become home, she did refrain from abandoning her fanatical mother to this misguided pilgrimage and bolting back to the Sea. The Sea, where the grasses eddied but the earth did not. Each sullen step Zeitgeist obediently took onward plodded straight over Zakita’s fragile little heart, and each stumble, stutter, and trip he took on the watery sand fueled the bitter glares shot her mother’s way. More often than not, the glares came at inopportune moments that left Zakita clamped onto her saddle like a stubborn stain to keep from falling off the successively tripped mount.

Uncharacteristically, Shrahri had found other things with which to keep herself entertained upon crossing into her beloved wasteland and no longer whined about the sad state her offspring had fallen into. The woman didn’t even seem to care that Zak spent more time trying not to fall out of the saddle than showing proper respect to the homeland. Thankfully, they were travelling with an honorable band of merchants and the insensitive lass could let down her incessant guard and shift her focus from anything and everything that could breach her bubble of personal space to solely those factors that affected Zeitgeist and his ability to stay beneath her. Just recently he’d figured out which of her spastic leg clamps and pressures were actually directions and which were just unique to her. At this point in the trip along the shifting sands, she only used one. Clamping all the way along his sides as far as her legs could reach with a death grip. Thank goodness she was little.

Somehow, the duo had once more migrated to the edge of the invisible road that the band of merchants could somehow differentiate from the rest of the treacherous burnished sand. And once more, with Zak’s eyes on her mother’s glowering face and ears wrapped up in her snippy command, Zeitgeist took a knee. Flying face first over the strider’s neck, her reflexive one handed, white-knuckled grip awkwardly jerked her body back around and upright before the hard muscle of the horse’s shoulder extended too far out and broke her hold. At least the sand had a flavor unique from the many mouthfuls of earth the girl got over the years. Pushing up off her face, the mussed child imprudently struck out at the sand, fingers gouging out long divots and sending a curtain of molten gold through the air.

“Petching shykestain of a deathtrap!” she cursed, ignoring the passing merchants and their polite attention redirection. “Petching fanatic.” This time the curse was for her mother, the responsible party in all inconveniences this remove conjured up. Wrapped up in impotent fury, the girl neglected to do a visual check of her body for injuries and instead gathered the horse’s reigns in preparation for remounting. Zeitgest had found his footing once more and patiently waited for his unique rider to climb aboard, accustomed to the distinctive way she rode. Never before had Zakita felt like such a failure. No, she hadn’t learned to ride in the last two years, her horse had learned to account for her inabilities. He probably knew what she was doing better than she did at any given moment, and more often than not could predict which of her actions would lead to disaster. Unfortunately, little attention remained to correct for her bad habits while traversing this new landscape. She hated it here.

In the saddle once more, the lanky girl nudged the unsteady horse back into the caravan. By this point in the trip, no one bothered to point out that her white Benshiran styled clothing had attracted a sheen of sand. She wore the clothing well, having adopted the style and color voluntarily after realizing that while it made her stick out like a sore thumb among the grasses, it showed blood well. Lip curled in a pouting snarl that hid not a lick of her bad attitude, Zakita plopped along in the saddle. Zeitgeist had been given free reign at this point, his rider holding on with one hand on the front of the saddle and her other on the back. The wiry muscles of youth popped in hard undefined bands, knuckles white with the force of the grip she had no instinctive control over. Wrapped up in displacing any and all negative emotions and facts onto her mother, the child didn’t notice the man pull up at first. Not surprising, really, considering the fact that she hadn’t even noticed that she could have engaged the nearby shadows in conversation with the fanatic no longer close enough to go ballistic on her for blasphemy.

Startled by the proximity of the both foreign and familiar voice, Zak’s head jerked around and startlingly pale eyes made more so by the bronze of her sun-stained skin met his in an unconscious glare. His accent unsettled her in that it matched perfectly with her mother’s when for so long Shahri had been the only one she’d ever heard speak like that. Even Zak couldn’t perfectly shape the sounds in Shiber. Of course, it didn’t help that he was sticking up for the fanatic. “Yeah, because it’s just as hard for someone to return home to the place they grew up as it is for someone that’s never been there and doesn’t want to be there,” the glowering girl retorted in slightly accented Shiber. “Clearly, she’s having just as much trouble as me: falling off her horse, not understanding half the things people are saying, having no clue where we’re going, who’s going to be there, what that place is like.” Zak’s sarcastic tone took a shrill turn at the end there as unwelcome and hysterical emotion threatened to overcome the little stockpile of defensive anger she’d accumulated.

Shaken, a glimmer of the disrespect she’d shown came to her attention and uncomfortably she turned a sullen stare to the thick mane of her horse. His neck was slimmer than the Desertbred. In fact, he was narrower all around than they. And taller. Sneaking a surreptitious glance at the man’s horse, she surmised that the desert was no place for a strider. No place for a strider meant no place for a Drykas. They had been very attentive to her horse’s needs, supplying almost twice as much water to Zeitgeist than any other horse and telling her that they would show her how to prevent the sand from building up in his eyes and ears and injuring him. This was no place for a strider.

by **Monarch** on June 15th, 2011, 12:20 am

One could say that Zak was a slow learner, but it was to be expected of her. From what the man know of the girl, she had lived most of her life in the grasslands to the north, even though she was desertbred. She didn't act like a Benshiran, she didn't move like a Benshiran, and she didn't swear like a Benshiran. "Hik. That is the word we say when we swear in the desert. It means spit, a waste of valuable water. It is a bit more efficient than the mouthful you just uttered." It was strange to teach a child how to swear properly in the desert, but it seemed to be a good starting point for her education.

The man grunted as he examined Zak once more, noting her obvious discomfort and irritation. He stopped his horse for the moment, and slipped off the side of it with ease. He was used to the surroundings, that much was apparent. Approaching Zeitgeist's side with his horse's reins in his hand, the Benshiran pat the flank of the strider with a patient expression on his face. "I am Tallid, from the tents of Makim, of the sons of Havid. And you are Zakita, I believe, from the Drykas lands. Your mother is Shrahri.“ He glanced towards the front of the caravan, where the mother and the caravan master were deep in conversation.

”The lands of Cyphrus are quite dangerous,” she was saying, ”But I believe trade could work well if you braved the roads of that place. There is a market there that is yet to be tapped, I think.” The caravan master gave a thoughtful nod, and Shrahri quickly reciprocated the idea. ”But the north is dangerous, just as dangerous down here. There are beasts that prowl the Sea.” The fact that she was very nearly speaking of her Drykas lover did not show in the speech, but Zakita could detect that very subtle hint of grief by the way that her mother ‘s shoulders quivered slightly. Shrahri had long gotten past the event, as the sands constantly shift and change position in the desert, but it was still difficult to speak of.

Meanwhile, Tallid was examining the strider again, a look of admiration now crossing his features. ”A fine mount, actually. I have heard tales of the striders, so I believe this beast will soon adapt to our desert.” He huffed, and took a step away from the strider to look back up to Zak. ”And so will you, in time. But, until that time, I think you shouldn’t place any extra stress on your horse. Get off the horse and walk.” The man’s face expressed no humor as he nodded slowly. ”Besides, you are just going to end up on the ground again.”

He meant no disrespect with such a request, and Zak didn’t need to follow it if she didn’t want to. But the gauntlet was now thrown at her feet, and it was up to the young woman if she would take up the challenge issued to her.

by **Zakita** on June 18th, 2011, 9:12 pm

Immersion in self-originated-embarrassment-turned-externally-caused-resentment interrupted by one of the sources of said resentment, Zakita monitored him from the corner of one baleful eye. Her swear words worked just fine. Unwilling to repeat the display of immature and impotent sulking, a retort regarding the effectiveness of a swear word that sounded like hiccup found itself choked down her throat. Language lesson receiving no response from the glowering punk, only the sounds of nearby conversations interrupted the sand blasting wail of the wind. Erroneously, relief loosened the muscles clamping to the dense bone of her shoulders like bands of iron when he decided to leave her alone and dismounted. Attention once more on herself, she unstrapped the waterskin and the last few drops of tepid moisture trickled out and teased the rough, dried surface of her mouth. Dropping the useless skin with a flippant flick of the wrist, it dangled by a thong attached to Zeitgeist’s tack and she became all the more aware of water’s necessity. The sad excuse for a Benshira smacked her chapped, sand gritty lips in disgust. Swallowing simply rubbed throat muscles together like sandpaper, her tongue grated thickly over everything in her mouth, saliva was nothing more than a sticky froth, and the crisped ends of dead skin caught on each other every time her lips moved. Licking the damaged muscles and rubbing them together for misguided alleviation merely made them stick together like honey.

Without a thought to the warning Shrahri had delivered earlier about this very malaise, probably because she’d decided her mother was being melodramatic about the dangers of the desert, or even the fact that she had been told to wear protection to begin with, the self absorbed girl dug out one of the white cloths designed for head and face protection. After trying it on and spending several painstaking hours learning how to wrap it properly, she’d shucked it due to its confining nature. Tongue, the only pressure and temperature sensitive spot at her disposal, skimmed over the roughage of her lips, and Zak abandoned the safety of clinging to the saddle to quickly fashion herself a head wrap. The sudden shying of Zeitgeist not only thwarted her attempts at self protection, fingers losing the ends of the wrap as she lurched to the side to keep her seat, but very nearly sent the teenager into a fit of rage vaguely reminiscent of a temper tantrum. It was only the carefully modulated sound of that man’s voice directed at her again that diffused the situation.

Head snapping around, the proximity of this Tallid fellow alerted her to the reason for the nimble cross step. They’d been trying to teach Zeitgeist the importance of avoiding everything that his rider didn’t direct him to. Of course, it was slow going due to a certain someone’s inability to give clear directions. And, though Zak proudly assumed he was showing progress on that front, in reality the sudden pressure had simply startled him from his single minded determination to walk without stumbling in the slippery sand. Nickering, the agile beast turned back to his task, allowing the human to walk nearby at his own risk of death-by-squishing. Meanwhile, Zak, mood lifted by the perceived improvement of her horse, nodded to affirm his conclusion regarding their identities.

“Zakita, of the Diamond Pavilion.” Yes, she had a Benshiran legacy as well, but aside from tales her mother told, that ancestry had always seemed a distant dream. Not so much anymore, and it was pure spiteful rebellion that kept her from identifying herself properly to the Benshiran.

Removing the head garment to resituate it, one palm brushed over the skin of her forehead. Surprised that the dehydrated atmosphere of the barren wasteland allowed even a bead to develop, Zakita eyed the sweat glistening on the open palm. Experimentally, long fingers curled closed to drag up the thick skin as she opened her hand again. The dry sound of paper rubbing no longer accompanied the motion of skin-on-skin. Eyes sliding up the line of travelers at the mention of her mother, turban forgotten in her fingers, the gangly youth’s face hardened. It was just like her mother to run away, lose the security of her man and flee. Now she scampered back to Eyktol, to this wasteland where she could charm some other man with her exotic knowledge. Mayhap even the caravan master. Shrahri ran from her selfish grief and delivered ten score more of it unto the shoulders of her daughter. The planes of her face, tender baby fat stubbornly clinging in a fruitless attempt to obscure the arresting features, curled into the early stage of a revolted snarl.

Wrapped up in all the angst that accompanied such nasty thoughts, subconsciously Zakita warmed up to the man praising her strapping and beloved mount. It wasn’t the flattery, his opinion that she just so happened to like very much, it was the recognition of a fine horse. A subject comfortable and similar enough to conversations back home in the lush plains that took her off guard and had her swinging out of the saddle, with surprising agility given her troubles staying in it, and not a hint of surly disrespect. For him anyway. Every few paces, those star-burst pale eyes of hers strayed near Shrahri with ten different kinds of spite for as long as she could neglect watching the unanticipated shifting of the sand beneath her feet.

“He won’t ever adapt, he doesn’t belong here,” Zakita muttered with stony conviction, feet sliding awkwardly with ever step. “If I don’t take him home she’ll probably sacrifice him to Yehal in payment for changing me back.”

“There is no ‘changing you back,’ dimwit,” the shadow suffering from gross neglect beneath Tallid snapped in Makath. “Yehal is a sand flea compared to the power of our Mistress. You should worry more about her trading him to her family for some hole in the sand shack to lock you in.

Zak’s eyes bugged out, riveted on the dark splotch beneath her companion, while her hand hastily latched onto Zeitgeist’s reigns in a white-knuckle grip.

by **Monarch** on June 29th, 2011, 1:10 am

"Don't discredit a fine horse." Tallid offered, taking slow and measured steps beside the impatient girl. It was highly possible that Zakita's frustration had created several grass fires in the Sea simply from the sheer concentrations of it. He sighed slowly, and gave a sharp tug on his own reins, causing his horse to rear it's head forward and pick up the pace. "Show discipline to the mount, and it will obey your commands. Place trust in the mount, and it will want to obey your commands."

The Benshiran man didn't know what the term "changing back" was supposed to refer to, but he doubted that the answer would mean much to him. It was the mutterings of a child, a child that didn't seem to understand a whole lot about her current situation. Still, Tallid tried to give her some reassurance. "Yahal does not demand the sacrifice of our horses, Zakita. It would be a worthy sacrifice to him, but he understands our need for them. I'm sure your horse will be safe in the city of Biryam." He heard a few whisperings of Zakita's... condition, but as a rule he paid gossip no heed. It was often the answer furthest from the most common trails of gossip that was the truth.

As the two walked on alongst the sands, Shrahri had now doubled back from the caravan master and was heading back towards her daughter with a look of renewed determination upon her features. When she approached, she gave Tallid a strong look that caused him to bow his head and amble away from Zakita, taking up his own trail along the sides of the caravan. With that bit of housekeeping finished, Shrahri rode beside Zakita, glancing towards her daughter only when she knew that the girl wasn't looking back. Other than those brief instances, her mother kept her back straight and her eyes forward, staring off into the dunes as they walked in silence.

Finally, Shrahri swallowed and began to speak. "We will travel with this caravan until we reach Yahebah. They are good people, and the master of the company is clever. He has travelled through the Burning Lands many times before, I believe." Looking back over her shoulder towards the wandering form of her daughter's previous companion, Shrahri narrowed her gaze and looked down from her mouth towards Zakita. "I'd prefer you to stay with me rather than accompanying the other members of the caravan. Even if they are Benshirans... any Benshiran that abandons their own people for desert walkers have lost touch with their heritage."

And now, Shrahri reached the important part of their conversation. She took a long breath, and gripped her reins tightly as they walked. "There is someone in this caravan that I'd like you to meet. He is another Benshiran, but a very special one. He's... he can..." Shrahri stumbled a bit as she tried to summarize the vocation of this strange Benshiran, and eventually just shook her head. "He can help us, I believe. He can help you, my child."

by **Cantrip** on September 6th, 2011, 11:57 pm

Shrahri spoke no more after that, though Zakita could not say if the lapse was from the choking dust. There were only the drifts of sand, the swaying of the saddle, and the undulating dunes that swam along the crimson sky, while below the caravan carved a ponderous route through the wastes. The tracks of men and mule were soon covered over by the sifting sands, revealing scraps of bleached bones. They were strewn here and there, along with rags, rusted ends of metal, and the husks of ebon scarabs.

The sands are lonely, unless you have a taste for bones.

Zakita had only to look upon them to see the shared fate of thousands of years of strife, labor, and love. Though she knew it not, her scorched flesh would soon blister, turning a deep red before it sloughed off in obscene strips. That was the cost of her neglect.

The day neared a close, and the carts creaked to a halt. The few shepherds went to tend to their flocks, leaving sons, daughters, and wives to ready the tents and prepare the evening meal. The traders saw to their horses and then their goods, for only then were their mind set at ease.

Shrahri began to set up their meager tent, and though Zakita could not feel the gritty sand, she soon heard the wavering sound of a lyre, which was presently joined by a drum. Just after the shepherds made their return, heralded by the bleating of goats, the heady scent of spices wafted over the acrid smoke. Zak lifted her head and saw a tapestry of stars in the dusk. Later, she heard a woman singing. The wastes grew colder. Zak was bundled into a shawl, and with Shrahri’s fist around her arm, brought to the Masha. The turbans were gone now, revealing the tan skin and pale eyes of her mother’s people, broad mouths opened in song, prayer, or to partake of simple repasts of bread, stewed beans, and cheese. The evening wore on. There was music and dancing, and then an elder got up to lead them in prayer, his quavering voice ending with a parable on greed.

Somewhere, far in the dunes, there was a baying of jackals. There was a hush, then a man’s boasting words were met by laughs and jeers. The Benshira didn’t play at swords. They were more concerned with finding water, food, and shade in these harsh wastes, where even the strongest army would surely perish.

“Zakita?” Then they came for her. The girl was no more than twelve, and by her side was a boy of close to the same age, both clad in dusty robes. “Zakita, you must come with us,” spoke the girl.

“Falim,” mumbled the boy, shyly casting his eyes at the dancing flames rather than risk meeting Zak’s gaze.

“Yes, Falim.” With a shy grin, the girl offered a hand. “I am Mina, of the Tents of Alachi, of the Sons of Rapa.” She jerked her head at the boy. “He’s Basalom, of the Tents of Aden, of the Sons of Hirem. But we call him Basalt, because he’s stupid as a rock.”

“Am not!”

Mina ignored his protests.

“Methusah is waiting,” she whispered.

by **Zakita** on January 12th, 2012, 10:10 pm

Zak trudged on beside Tallid, her silence acknowledgment of his clear-headed advice. Zeit was a great a horse, really smart. Zak wasn’t entirely sure how he managed to follow her. The Drykas always told her that a rider needed to be in control, that the horses were pack animals and needed to feel as though they were following a leader. Zak knew what she wanted the horse to do, but often couldn’t follow through with the physical gesture properly. She trusted him implicitly since he’d started picking up on all the training. Perhaps there would be someone in this Biryam Tallid mentioned that could continue working with them. As the question formed on her lips, the sound of Shrahri’s return reached their ears. The tall desert walker broke off quickly, and to her chagrin, Zak felt a little remorse at having behaved the way she had. His absence left a frightening void at her shoulder.

Blue eyes dropped to the sand at her feet, studying the eddies and curls that shifted so unpredictably beneath her feet. Shrahri had plenty of opportunities to watch her. Shame at the vocalizations of her anger and disappointment toward her mother rose thick within the girl. No one that tried as hard to be a good parent deserved that from their child. Tallid probably thought she was beastly now. Emotions printed clearly across her face, the girl swung up into the saddle, graceful only due to muscle memory. Zeit accepted the load again and dropped his head casually, eyeing the treacherous sand. Shrahri’s daughter acknowledged their plans with a nod. But at the disparaging hint regarding her earlier walking buddy, Zak glanced over sharply.

“Tallid helped me understand your predicament in returning to your people after abandoning them for grass serpents,” the girl retorted sharply, but continued in a subdued tone. “I’m sorry I’ve shown you great disrespect, mother. I don’t believe that your special Benshiran can…help me…but you know best.”

Silence fell between them, though Zak felt as though it had eased somewhat. And that perhaps they listened with the same awe at the sound of wind rushing through the sharp granules of earth. Maybe those bones were comforting to Shrahri in a way they were not to her daughter. Zak adjusted her hood, drank from her mother’s water, and enjoyed a remarkable improvement in her horse’s ability to walk. Life seemed static around here, looking at those flashes of calcium deposits, and it explained Shrahri’s inability to accept the change in her daughter.

As every night of their journey, Zak left Shrahri to setting up the tent and took both women’s horses down to be seen to. Of course, Zeit needed extra care and Zak watched with eagle’s eyes to absorb every methodical check the traders went through. Ears, eyes, sores, and how much food and water they gave. Soon she would have to resume care for the guy, and she would not let stubborn denial hurt him. Meandering back to her mother, the girl checked over herself as best she could. The skin of her hands looked horrible, and if she pressed down the white imprint of her fingers would linger starkly against the red skin. Shrahri clucked at her and stripped the girl to do a more extensive damage count. In the few moments she had to herself, gazing up at the not-so-unfamiliar stars and trying to pick out the familiar scents in this foreign camp, Zak listened to the shadows sing their nightly welcome to Akajia. A wistful smile curled those damaged lips, and her eyes closed in acceptance of complete darkness.

With only the smell of camp in her nose, the scene gone, the sounds drowned out by the keening of those shadows, the sensation of her physical self being anchored to this world having never even existed, Zak imagined she could be one of Akajia’s mysterious creations. Nothing more than shadow, often overlooked, misunderstood, ignored, unappreciated, but everywhere all at once, providing counterpoint to the over-glorification of Syna, of common belief and thought and norms.

Her mother had known what she was doing when she found her. Shrahri snapped the shawl around her daughter’s narrow shoulders and firmly took her in hand. Zak didn’t protest, and bore the terse displeasure from her mother with stalwart patience. The prayers drifted over the group, food found its way into travel wearied tummies, and it wasn’t so bad. Different, slow, peaceful…but not so bad. The camaraderie was different. Their nightly habits bespoke of peace. Zak didn’t understand that their dangers disrupted daily life just the same as the Drykas’, but…she was a bit on the slow side.

Lost in musings and observations, the girl jumped when Falim and Mina appeared. They were about the same age as she was, and she eyed them warily. They were the first children she’d come into contact with. Nodding that dark head, sunburned flesh crinkling along her frown, she pushed to her feet and gingerly followed along. Despite trepidation, her peers’ banter soothed her fears regarding the upcoming attempt to ‘help her’.

“I like rocks. It’s never bad to have something solid around in all this shifting sand,” she pointed out with all the wisdom of a preteen. The tentative friendliness faded into throat-cinching fear at the final comment Mina made. If she could just stay here with these two funny kids, if they would show her everything, explain everything, they wouldn’t need that Methusah man. She would be better. Even as the blanket of shadows sang to her in such sweet lullaby, she knew they couldn’t help her with this. Only flesh and blood could save her from these people.

“What’s he going to do to me?”

OOC :

by **Cantrip** on January 22nd, 2012, 11:57 am

Basalom’s face turned a ruddy hue, and he was plainly uncomfortable as he shifted from sandal to sandal, driving the brown nubs of his toes into the sand. He was perhaps wondering, with the mind of a young dreamer, if she was talking about boulders, or him. He tried to puff out his chest, but ended up cringing away.

“Probably tear your clothes off and slather you with some kind of greasy, reeking ointment,” Mina gave a shrug, deadpan. Basalom just made a choking sound, eyes bulging. The quiet lingered. “Oh, come on,” Mina laughed, harshly tweaking his ear. “That’s what you get for reading too many scrolls, brother. No, he most certainly wouldn’t do that to you,” her gaze wavered back to the other girl. “Methusah is a crusty shepherd who’s probably seen ninety years, and has been raving mad for nearly half of them. He’ll just jabber about faith, prudence, and prunes until your brain turns to mush, then ask you to wipe up the jelly when it leaks from your ears. He doesn’t really do anything, just trudges along behind his donkey. He has a spear, though. He doesn’t show it to anybody, but if you creep in while he’s snoring, you can unlash the bundle and look at it yourself.”

Basalom perked up. “And it’s not just any spear,” he gurgled with a boy’s voracity for weaponry. “The spear is heavy and black, carved like a viper, and there’s this-”

“Benachag, she doesn’t want to hear about spears. Have you thought that she maybe doesn’t even want to see him?” Mira reached for Zak’s shoulder, wryly peering into gray eyes. “You know, you don’t really have to. You could just go and play with us. You’d be the only one that gets a beating for it, but sometimes that’s just what you have to do.” Basalom frowned.

“Why does she have to go?”

“Why don’t you ask her?” Mina gave a snort, heaping with scorn. “You boys can’t ever talk to a pretty girl.”

The boy’s frown grew broader, for he’d been struck by her gauntlet. But she’s ugly, he might’ve jerked out to make her think that he didn’t think what he clearly did think, but he was too shy, and clearly too confused by the circular logic for that. He just gulped, vividly coloring again, and asked, “Why do you have to go?”

by **Zakita** on January 26th, 2012, 1:07 am

Greasy…slather…tear clothes off?”

Basalom, whom Zak had been watching inexplicably fidget with her perfect nightvision, was graced with a look of pure mulish obstinacy. Not that he noticed, he was too busy experiencing the same incredulity at Mina’s unfortunately apt humor. Maybe someday he would know how grateful she was for his bugged out eyeballs at that moment; if not for his gullible gawking, Mina might have seen her own similar reaction, and she did not want to seem silly to the confident desert-walker.

Zak seemed properly amused at Basalt’s expense when Mina’s gaze returned. Now a pedantic shepherd with a dusty old rotting spear sounded simple. Her bravado surged accordingly, puffing up under Mina’s hand in a way the boy wished he’d been able to. There wasn’t much room for response within their dialogue, but her focus on exactly what she was going to say, when they finally did stop speaking, carried her through the unexpected compliment, and any distraction, similar to the emotional flush Basalom experienced, it might have induced.

“I’m not supposed to talk about it,” Zak told them with furtive glances over both shoulders, and a part of her quailed at having to give up her secret. For once she agreed with her mother, no one had to know what was ‘wrong with her’. “But I’d better get meeting this old crust out of the way. I can handle him, as long as he doesn’t want to garnish his prunes with my brain jelly afterwards,” the foreign native quipped with a swagger. “Then he’ll wish he had more than a chunk of wood, viper or no.” Boasted with a significant glance at the mottled Basalom. “That way we can play afterwards instead of my mother punishing me. She won’t beat me, you know, and no one else will either.” Gray eyes watched her cohorts for the appropriate awe at her imperviousness to such punishment.

But the secret they’d partially shared ate at her heart. Sweet beckoning whispers sang from the sea of never ending shadow. Elation soared at the prospect of satisfying them and Akajia. To be able to show them the staff, tell them why he kept it hidden, nothing in the world would ever be so satisfying as paying tribute to her mistress. The shadows flared around her. Their motions were deliberate and sentient, they surrounded and enveloped her. But this was her secret, everyone else assumed shades were passive, at the merciless whim of light. Imbeciles. Heavy and black, carved like a viper, and…

Like a passing scent could pull a person back to another time and place, submerge them in a full sensatory recollection of a memory, the shadows stoked one such experience for Zak. As though she were years younger, broken bones and blood revealed once more by intermittent moonlight in the Drykas camp, Akajia’s mystery loomed before her and a bright imprint flared between her shoulder blades where the Goddess’ hand lay. Her hand felt like looking right at the sun. Now that spot, where four fingers, one thumb, and a square palm had once flooded her dormant sense of touch, was honored by her Gnosis as well as an elegant set of windmarks.

Heavy and black, carved like a viper, and…

Clapping a hand over each child’s shoulder, she drew them closer. Often, back at home where she knew everyone, these kinds of mysteries solved themselves in her mind. It had started when Akajia had blessed her, and as the years wore on the secrets unraveled quicker. Many of the shadows at home had taken a liking to her. She was young and impressionable, at their beck and call. But here, here she had no parameters that filled in the blanks. These shadows were wary of her, scornful of her relationship with the blaspheming Shrahri. Here she had only Mina, Basalom, Tallid, and…Methusah.

“I have to go see him. But he wants to take something from me. A part of who I am. I need your help,” she pleaded with the companions, bringing them into her solemn confidence with no questions asked, and even littler thought given to the boasts of a moment ago.

by **Cantrip** on January 30th, 2012, 11:39 pm

“Prunes?” Basalom wrinkled his nose. “Yuck.”

“They do make a tasty jelly, though,” quipped Mina, but each of the children listened raptly. They were plainly eager to know more about this girl who appeared as they did, yet wasn’t. The desert was mostly empty, but that wasn’t so bad if you’d friends to pass the long days, the cold nights of singing, dancing, regaling tales and japing around like utter cretins. That was the blessing of youth, though clearly, not everybody could hurl their cares away. Zakita’s mention of play brought out a pair of grins, and consequently a happy gurgle, swiftly followed by the desperate wrenching of boyish features to an untidy veneer of nonchalance.

That didn’t last so long, though. The likely vagaries of her closing, somber entreaty, only spawned doubts, crawling like locusts over their young, pliable minds and dredging up crazy imagery. “What’s he trying to take?” Basalom gave an outraged scowl, scrunching up his coppery fists. Zakita’s words had brought forth sundry visions of Methusah taking her favorite toy, or maybe a donkey.

He liked donkeys.

“You stupid, she’s not saying because she doesn’t want to say,” clarified Mina, giving him a sharp cuff by the ear. There was a dull thunk, the sort of noise you’d hear if you kicked a boulder. Though she responded more calmly, the corners of her mouth gave a tug. “Don’t worry, Zak,” she hushed, warmly taking the other girl’s hand. “We’ll take you there, and if you get scared, we’ll upset the pegs so the tent’ll collapse and you can run away.”

They took her away, though the circle of canvas. The tents were mostly low, peaking at four corners. Through the harmony of the lyre and its accompanying drum, the drone of raised voices, they could hear the flap of bleached canvas, the murmur of goats.

Methusah’s tent was fully across the camp, set up slightly apart from the others. He’d acquired a reputation for always finding snakes, or tiny, sandy colored scorpions crawling over his belongings come the morning, so he’d taken to pitching his tent away from the others. Most often with the help of a boy, since he was rather elderly. The tent was smaller than the others, but richer, stitched of faded cherry cloth broken by whorls of lilac, the entry flap gaping to reveal a greasy, flickering light of a lamp. There were weak silhouettes of heaps of cushions, a chest, what looked like urns stacked in a corner, and the solitary inhabitant sitting with crossed legs.

Mina gave Zak a nudge. “Well?”