Closed [The Strands] I Don't Like Sand (Anton)

[Rhylund Vauler]

31 Fall 512 AV Weary hands clutched a skull housing a tired mind. The bard walked across parched land, riddled with veins of heat-cracked clay. The sun had climbed half way through the sky, and already its beams scorched the harsh and unforgiving environment. The day before had been a hazy blur, and it tugged at Rhylund's memory as if to try and rearrange the wayward pieces of the shattered picture-puzzle left in its wake. Broken flashbacks of wide, wooden gears and compartments filled with horrors he could not recall, clawed desperately at the corners of his mind. Confusion spurred his feet towards a spot in the distance holding nothing in particular. He couldn't even remember how he had arrived in this cursed waste land. The heat─this unnatural, blasted heat─sucked the moisture from his pores. Anxiety had begun to close in around him once he realized he was no longer sweating. His simple, blue coat scratched at his bare back and arms once he removed his white shirt and wrapped it around his head to keep the sun from reducing his head to frying pan. He almost thought he could hear the gentle hiss of his brain being brought to a boil.

[Anton]

Anton laid face-first in the sand, still as a corpse and with no plans to do a single damn thing about it within the foreseeable future.

And why should he?

He ached and itched and felt sores in a hundred and one places all over his body. He fell, he remembered, suddenly and swiftly and from a great distance, and the next thing he knew was tumbling hurt and grains. He tasted heat in his mouth and heat in the air and decided, quite readily, that he wasn't on a beach, that he wasn't on anywhere he had ever been before.

But he wouldn't look up to confirm it. No, looking was movement, and movement was sensation, and sensation meant real, and real meant that the events of the past day wasn't something locked inside the deepest and most twisted recesses of his mind. And so in the end, moving hurt more than laying down to slowly steam ever could.

His arm reached out to grab at air, then stopped.

He remembered sensation moments after he had forgotten to never move. It was a doorway to endlessness...

And it started with a drink.

A really, really funny tasting drink.

What followed it, however, just wasn't.

The desert continued to cook him, and he quite literally baked in it's arid affection, content to rot there.

[Rhylund Vauler]

A soft crunch followed each step as his boots came down upon fragile clumps of dust, collected by a wind that had managed to be absent on today of all days. A flask was fished out from inside his coat─nearly hot to the touch─and was raised to his lips in an effort to quench his unbelievable thirst. A string of curses sprang from Rhylund's mouth once he recovered from the intense coughing fit the flask had induced. He damned himself for not thinking first: rum. A welcome drink since the first time it touched his lips, but now he could feel it laugh back in his face as it burned his skin and threatened to seal his throat. He stood still and held the thing out in front of him, clearly considering whether or not dumping its contents on his head would provide relief from the heat, or simply aid in its relentless assault. His boots moved onward once the flask was resting firmly back within his coat. "OHHHHHHH," His raspy voice ripped out from his lungs, lending to the image of a stone-cold drunk as he ambled forward. "WHEN I THOUGHT THE NIGHT WAS DAMNED, THE MORNING WAS MUCH WORSE. WHEN I THOUGHT YOU'D LEFT ME NOTHING─YOU LEFT ME WITH THIS CURSE." His singing was peppered with half-mad laughter, and a few flippant steps were danced before he almost fell. "OH, I SHOULDA LISTENED TO ME 'MUM: 'A GIRL LIKE HER IS YOUNG AND DU-'" His song fell short as he spotted something small and lifeless laying within the shimmer of the heat rising from the ground ahead. Green-eyes widened as he thought he saw it move. His torso tilted back and his hands raised to form ring a around his mouth. "HHELLLOOOO!?" He leaned back forward, nearly falling flat upon his face. A deep sigh forced its way through his lips mimicking a bellowing wind as he moved with a little more haste in its direction.

[Anton]

"HHELLLOOOO!?"

No.

Rising panic. A flash to a ticket of gleaming golden so bright that it hurt just to look at it. A mill that claimed sugar as it's main source of income. Something about collective beardvinity and the theological implications of such a revelation. A hole in the earth with dirt and dust and underpaid claymen. A soulless man beating him over the head with a lut-

It all threatened to come back.

Nonononononono.

He denied it. With every sore fiber in this being, with every ounce of sanity he had left, he denied it all. He closed his eyes and covered his ears and sang "LALALALALALALALALALALALA" as he squirmed around in the sand, twisting back and forth, trying to flop like some sort of dying fish. He was moving again, and the sensations came back, but it didn't matter.

Or did it?

Where was he anyway?

What was he?

He stopped thrashing around long enough to stare -to truly stare- at his hand. It was such an alien thing; white and with long things at the end that moved as he willed it to. Shells adorned the end of them, with the tiniest hint of suppressed red to them.

To keep him out...Or to keep them in?

No.

No more.

He threw himself to his feet and ran from them.

His hands were relentless though. Like savage beasts, they trailed behind him. Sometimes in front of him. Mostly to his sides.

[Rhylund Vauler]

"Hey─HEY!" Rhylund spotted the shapeless clump spring to its feet before bounding off. His own legs moved into long, awkward strides with his arms occasionally milling about in an attempt to keep his balance. "Come back here!" His lute bounced against his back and his chest labored for breath. Flash. The figure─no, the boy─still raced ahead of him down long, twisting corridors. The air was cooler but his own lungs felt about to catch fire as he ran as fast as he could. "We gotta get-" Flash. "outta here!" The desert snapped back around him, and the sun hammered once again upon his face. His right hand rose to shield his eyes as he ran through a cloud of dust. The gap between the bard and the boy began to slowly close as his strides pulled the dirt beneath him. "Stop!" His arm returned to the normal pumping motion of a full-bodied sprint. The land seemed to pitch a little to right, then veered back towards center, before angling too far to the left. "Wait for-" Flash. "Me! No, go left!" The smell of heavy, wet mold flooded his nostrils as he continued to flee down the corridor. Shadows stretched to consume the hall, but an unseen source of light kept them just at bay. A scream sounded out from behind him, giving his legs a burst of unclaimed energy. It was not human, and it was not alone. The tainted chorus sounded again. Faster. He knew, somehow, that he was not the owner of the voice─only he certainly owned the need. He turned left at a fork in the corridor and spotted the short figure at the far end. Something blocked him. He ran as hard as he could until he was only paces away from the boy, "Get it open! Open that-" Flash "Door!" The dry-wasteland-curtain fell back down around him, and before he could stop his momentum, he toppled head-long over the child. The two rolled a short distance, kicking up a cloud of sand-laced, nonsensical profanities. Rhylund laid, chest heaving, face down on the hot ground.

[Anton]

Ashes.

Ashes in his mouth.

Ashes becoming his lungs and feet and arms and even those weird shelled things attached to them. Their intentions were undoubtedly sinister, but even they became searing fire as Anton plunged his entire being into the run: Chest heaving, eyes blurring, leaking precious sweat, footsteps that found sand again and again and again. He pushed himself harder and harder even as his little body screamed in protest, trying his very best to keep up his sprint.

Maybe he heard sounds. Maybe someone called for him. But it didn't matter. The run swept concern under the rug, robbed sound from the world and kept him going beyond reason.

And then a hiss in the dark recesses, reaching out...

Flash.

The eagle burned, but it didn't die.

Rather, it was truly alive for the very first time.

Fire flooded it's veins, and as it spread it's wings, fire flooded the world around it.

Its first words marked the man's last breath:

"IT'S MY LIFE!"

Flash.

Wait, Anton thought, that never happe-

And then something impossibly fat collided into him, sending them into that little spiral...

He was, of course, unsurprised when he found himself in the exact same sand-eating position he started in.

[Rhylund Vauler]

The world was dark, and only a small, high-pitched ringing broke the silence. Heat. Always that heat─the sand was hot, the air was hot, the breath that failed to compete with the sound of the ringing coming from inside─was hot. His eyes shot open and the sky was where the ground ought to be, and the ground was no where in sight. He rolled over on his stomach with a groan that echoed the creaking of his bones, and the world around him corrected itself. And there it was. Rhylund reached out and pulled himself across the desert floor until he came face-to-face with his lute. "No..." He whispered, before pushing himself up onto his knees. His hands picked up the instrument and cradled it in his arms. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" His features sagged with the weight despair. He would have shed a tear, had his body any liquid left to spare. He would have bawled his eyes out... ...if the thing had actually broken. He continued to stare down at his lute while his left hand brushed imaginary hair away from the top of its head. A small sniffle rocked his frame, "You'll be the death of me, An-" He suddenly spun around to look for the other object he had collided with. "You!" He struggled for a moment to reach his feet, then pointed his lute towards the boy, holding its neck as if it were a sword. "Why did you bring me here!?" Rhylund staggered a few steps forward. His body went in one direction while his head tilted in another─always, though, did the lute pivot to remain true against his... ...adversary.

[Anton]

It was his lot in life to eat sand, Anton thought. To rise up against a cruel, oppressive universe only to be re-crushed face first into the white dirt. It was the same story all over again: The coarseness, the heat, the sickening graininess of this world. And now, he could add exhaustion to the list. As well as a thirst so dry he could swallow up a-

He had this strange inkling that, perhaps in a better world, he could have done something about his impending dehydration.

In a better world.

With some difficulty, he staggered up to his feet, spitting out sand and dusting off his coat. And looked around. He should have had so many questions: Where was he? How did he get here? Why-

The mournful nooooooooooooooooo deserved only a blink.

So he blinked.

And against every instinct in his bones and in his heart, he approached the man. Slowly.

"You'll be the death of me, An-"

And he regretted it immediately.

"You!"

"Me?" He looked over his shoulder. Nope. No one. He gave a helpless, little shrug, and turned back.

"Why did you bring me here!?"

"I, uh," Anton started, eyes trained warily on the lute. " Love you? What? Are we the camels, lord? Are we the bells of the night and the birth-spear? Take me to your feeder, lord, or how is lutey? Is she safe, is she well?" His eyes left the lute and were now trying to stare puzzlingly at his mouth, which was moving on it's own volition. "Your red hair damns you to Rhysol's flock. I'll pray for you, sir, but lutey's dead. DEAD FOR YOUR FACE."

He couldn't help wondering that something was deeply wrong here-

"Horsepunch, petch. Horsepunch!"

[Rhylund Vauler]

"Rhysol..." The word left his mouth in a whisper. His lute remained extended while his freehand rose to pinch a lock of his bangs before pulling them down in front of his nose for a glimpse. Red. Crossed-eyes produced two of the wicked little prophet before him, causing his right leg to step back so that he resumed what he assumed to be a fighting-stance. "Ah ha! The joke is on you, little lord. Although I may have a measly lute, it is quite effective when applied to the─." His sentence failed as a lone breeze distracted him. He stood, covered in sand and dirt, with his make-shift turban and luted-sword. Silence replaced the wind and the dust settled. Breath still came with effort, and his tongue tried in vain to restore moisture to his mouth. "We do not have time for these shenanigans... Shenanigans. That's a beautiful word." He considered a moment as the bottom of his lute gently met the ground beneath him and his weight leaned slowly against it. Where were they? When were they? "...Sugarmill..." The sound of his voiced surprised him as he looked back up at the boy. "We'll have to work together." His eyes skimmed across the land, pained by the dry heat that consumed them. It still rose in shimmering waves that mocked with the illusion of water. Do not trust him: cannot trust him... no, wait. Trust him─for now. The thought was laden with crazed-suspicions. "Or..." Did I just say that aloud? His chin tilted up and away from his neck at and angle. "He eyed the boy in front of him, as wary of his intent as he was his position in the world. Of his position in life. Would they die, beneath the ruthless rays of the merciless sun? Or, would our heroes triumph─would the day─could the day, still, be won?" Rhylund drew a deep breath through his nose and let his head hang down so that his chin touched his chest. The end felt near. He would die, out in this refuse heap of a landscape, along side his only mortal enemy. He was─ Something commanded his head to rise, and when it did, a group of men... what he took to be men, were approaching them at a distance from behind the boy. His heart skipped a beat: they were saved.

[Anton]

"He's a god." Anton's mouth chimed in helpfully, to his very visible horror. "He's a big, fat mean god who took your hair and your soul. You were blonde till your 5th birthday, so you weren't missing much, sod." Anton's slapped his mouth shut over with both hands in the vain hope that the noise would stop, and it retaliated back with a wicked, slightly muffled but still very audible "I'm a girl! I have girl parts! I get really, really pissed at the world thrice a season and I think I know why!"

Lies. On every count. Especially that last one.

"Stop it!" he managed. "Stop i-Your mother was the whore the other whores whored!"

What did that even mean?

And to match his little internal conflict came his external one.

"Ah ha! The joke is on you, little lord." Lute raised and ready for action, he was a dangerous threat to any bit-sized child anywhere. "Although I may have a measly lute, it is quite effective when applied to the─."

Huh. What was he going to say?

The mouth, however, knew. It knew and it talked at the expense of an ever-increasing sense of thirst.

"Jugular!" Anton's mouth exclaimed. " He was going to say jugular! JUGULAR."

"We do not have time for these shenanigans... Shenanigans. That's a beautiful word."

"Unlike your fac-...Sugarmill..." he -not his mouth- said at the exact same time as the bard, his eyes taking on, for but a moment, the dazed look of a, well, let's say drunk honey badger. It would have sounded rehearsed, even contrived, except they had no audience. So who the petched cared?

But that moment was over.

"We'll have to work together."

Over.

"I only regret not preemptively slitting my wrists before that statemen-"

"Or..."

"No. Nonononono. You're narrati-"

He remembered dying once.

Now he remembers dying twice.

He threw himself to the ground again and dug furiously with his hands, seeking sanctuary away from the dark one's monologueing.