Starting at silence someone offered a drawn out hiss, a gasp of air that stuck in a throat at the beginning throb of wet drums. He stands, empty handed and tall, beneath an arch made of split bamboo and hemp cord. He is naked. The scent of copper fills the humid night air. All he wishes to do is draw his eyes away from the woman in front of him and count stars. But there is a thick collar around his neck that is tightly tethered to the bamboo arch; his gaze is forced to the woman and his senses recoil. She is naked as well and she is dancing in time to the heady percussion. She dances for him but he feels no warmth in his loins, any yearning for her to touch him condensates on his upper lip. So he closes his eyes and holds his breath. The woman places a wreath of gray sage and white jasmine flowers on his head like a crown and the drums stop. In the distance, far beyond the pale curve of horizon, there is a flash of light that he sees through clenched eyelids. There is a sudden pain in his chest that makes his hands and feet grow numb, then cold.

The beetle marched daintily, seemingly without motivation or direction, across the sugary sands. He left subtle winding tracks, tiny loops and long ruts when he tumbled down the coughing dunes on his smooth back. By night, the beetle trudged forward haughtily unperturbed even towards the gritty sand that clung to his antennae and lodged itself beneath his thick carapace. When the sun crept along the eastern horizon in sweeping tones of whorish pink and blushing salmon, the little black beetle took refuge beneath prickly stumps of Bolah flower or a particularly dense clump of rugged gray sage.

The smell of the desert plants reminded the beetle of his mother and he dreamt in slow black and white; sometimes he saw her face in the boxy facets of a grain of sand. Sometimes he saw himself. Sometimes he saw the scowling face of a disapproving father. And still other times he could not see anything beyond the swarms of stinging storms and woke with a start and a yelp. It wasn’t often that the beetle was caught unawares by the veils of angry sand; even the darkest night brought a smudged sky, or, at the very least, he would feel a change in atmospheres like a pressure in his chest. As a man, Taiaka’s flesh would burn and blister from the lean of the sun, a sandstorm would surely rip and peel skin and hair away from bone and sinew. So he pranced along the bleak landscape as a little black beetle and hummed songs of his father’s people.

Stretched before him was a dirty canvass pitted and spurred like the roof of his mouth, it lived and changed, and being so small, it showed him a mad world through the eye of a needle. He was heading towards Angband and the stars of the northern hemisphere marked his path. Taiaka knew that after 13 years in the desert, he had to be close.

((I hope you don't mind me posting here))

A hand was lowered onto the white mane of the restless horse;

Its hooves touched the sand for the first time in an eternity, and the arid air once more traversed its nostrils and lungs. The mount was calmed by the hand upon its mane and the words which followed.

“You too, my friend? I know, the feeling of being home is almost overwhelming, and by the looks of it we are going to get quite the welcome committee.” Zekhen looked into the distance, the ruins of once a great citadel being but a black spot onto the seemingly infinite gold abyss. A sand storm of the most vicious ones was coming – he could feel it in the air, he could feel it in the soil, and he could feel it into the ‘spirit’ of the mighty Desert alone. Could they make it to shelter in time? Probably not, they will once more have to face the destructive force of a storm.


“I haven’t eaten anything in a couple of days, the creatures of the desert are all hidden beneath the sand, I must find something, or we will die from starvation.” Solitude was a common thing among the inhabitants of the desert; sometimes they were organized in clans and gangs, but most of the time they traveled alone, with their mounts or pack-creatures. To make the time go by easier, the desert elf, often had conversation with his horse, the poor animal did not have the gift of speech, but it often replied with neighs or certain movements of its head and frame.

It was the middle of the day, and he was unable to turn his gaze upwards in search for a bird to hunt, without risking to go permanently blind – therefore, the green orbs were turned to the sand instead in search for some sort of edible creature, or a bait of some kind. They followed the fresh winding tracks, and his search was soon rewarded by the tiny and apparently insignificant appearance of a beetle. The man jumped from the saddle and threw himself over the small creature, taking a hold of it with two fingers, one on each of the bug’s side.

“You will be my ticket for today’s supper, little one.” He held it close, and thought of a master plan to hunt a suculent bird by using the bug as a bait.

Yaixa was the chief’s black haired daughter that Taiaka courts. He is the one, out of all the mangy youths that buzz around the girl that keeps his distance and plays with her breath by simply looking at her. This angers her and she gossips about the shape of his body to her doe eyed ladies. Taiaka climbs the trusses and swings his lanky legs over the creaky bamboo planks; Yaxia hears him but makes no move towards her thin window shades. He tears the rice paper with a cat’s claw that he bound to the end of a dread lock and the girl, perched crooked upon her bed, stops brushing her hair.

“I have called my father’s men to me.” Her words are so softly spoken that Taiaka pauses; he is caught in the sound of copper bracelets clinking together. Being still and penitent beneath a starlit wreath of purple ivy, he pictures the shape of Yaxia’s wrists and the lines on her smooth hands,

They waited for each other to flinch.

Finally, she says in a warbling voice, “Who is there...?” Taiaka pushes off the balls of his feet and reaches just beyond the shadows her candles cast, showing her his face. She lifts her chin in the air, a superior gesture she is fond of, and he mimics her movement. He is breathing in the scent of her room instead of mocking her, but she takes it as an affront.

“Another step and I scream. My guards will not be merciful and I promise you-“

Holding two fingers to his lips, he silences her, and then braces himself against the corner of her casement. Deep inside, his chest tenses, he whispers, “If you wanted to hurt me, you wouldn’t do it with your guards.”

* * *

The day grew hot, and in turn, it caused the beetle to begin his sleep with peaceful hopes, and wake up teetering on his back bedazzled. He was caught in a streak of mottled sunlight that somehow found its way through a tangle of baked root. Before good judgment caught him unaware, Taiaka’s many joints were coughing sand and he was already upon the next dune in a blotchy haze. He was irritable, but no more than usual, and sometimes forgot the locomotion mechanics of six legs; it did not help his morale to keep tumbling onto his shoulders, bending and bruising.

The shadow was back too.

It had followed him for the last few days, swooping and diving in graceful circles overhead. Taiaka assumed it was probably a vulture the first time he saw it, but he knew he was just being cynical. It was in fact a grubby hawk of some sort; Taiaka had seen more refined versions of the raptor back in his clan, but never one with such bleached features and languid presence. Unfortunately, it had a poor perception of prey, something its brain couldn’t possibly comprehend, and the beetle would play the game until it grew brave enough to scoop him up. Then, he would strangle it, build a fire, and make a headdress from its scruffy feathers.

Four dunes later and the hawk never descended upon the beetle and suddenly, it flew away hard to the south. Taiaka saw its shadow chase it across the dreary sand before it fragmented into the quavering desert heat. He cursed, loudly for a beetle, and was too caught up in disappointment to notice the steady throb of hoof beats in the distance.

When Taiaka saw the shadow again, as overjoyed as he was, there was no time to react. Giddily, he prepared himself for the jolting plummet and crushing impact from the hawk’s strong clutches. But instead he was lifted softly into the air, tilted at this angle and that; he became quite lightheaded from the momentary discombobulating before his senses snapped to attention.

“You will be my ticket for today’s supper, little one.”

How ironic, Taiaka thought, hanging limp between the creatures fingers as he reexamined his strangulation plan.

In musky kivas filled with spicy smoke, Taiaka’s mother warned him that every creature was a danger to a creature that could become all creatures. She said they would not understand and seek to destroy or enslave; the zealot recounts of torture were pure indulgent fantasy, but his mother was generous with her preconceived notions. It wasn’t until Taiaka was allowed to caravan with his father on salt trades did his prejudices shatter.

The beetle did not struggle, but instead made subtle, imperceptible changes to his guise; just enough to speak loudly and clearly enough to be heard.

“Why don’t we eat your horse instead?”…Said the ornery beetle, Taiaka mused, buggy body fidgety, and six legs in faux motion forward. He did not want to hurt this creature, it seemed harmless enough, if not hungry. But he did not want to show his hand so early in the game.

At first, Zekhen thought of eating the beetle itself, but how would that satisfy his hunger, he had to use his head and think. “Fishing’ a bird with this small insect seemed like the perfect thing to do. He was inches away from a succulent meal, and a satisfying feeling crossed his being in a flash as he enforced his grip onto the insect.

Things turned personal when the flying predators mocked him for the last two days as they flew over his head countless of times, displaying him what he couldn’t have or merely waiting for him to die from starvation and have a feast themselves. The situation was unfortunate, since he traveled the most arid part of the waste, where little to no creatures, not even insects or snakes made their home, the sand was usually too hot and there was no source of life. Zek tried to hunt guiding by the bird’s shadow, without looking upwards, but every time it proved to be in vain, the image was blurred and inaccurate because of the extreme heat shed by the bed of sand. Waiting for dawn was another viable option, but whenever the sun became gentle, the bird stopped appearing all together. It was frustrating.

“Why don’t we eat your horse instead?” As weird as it seemed, the beetle spoke with the voice of a man. For sure, it was not an ordinary beetle, it was one of those Zekhen has never seen before, and yet his astonished feelings were perfectly hidden behind a straight face and cool attitude. Or it was the hunger and the overzealous sun that made him hallucinate and think that a beetle could hold a conversation with someone.

And yet, he replied…

“I’m sorry, but that it is not possible… I prize this horse more than you might think. And yet, you are the perfect tool to try and catch some of these birds soaring the sky.”

The desert elf maintained his grip onto the beetle, and for a couple of moments he started to think on a course of actions.

“I could try and shoot one, but the sun does not allow me to look upwards. Say, would you mind cooperating with me, for a mutual benefit, and dinner…?”

Again, he must be crazy to talk to a beetle; but in over a century of life he had learned that he should not underestimate any creature. Prayed he, that he wouldn’t have to deal with a beetle with an attitude, there was no room for such things in the desert, not when your life was as stake, and his patience was slowly diminishing. He felt like the whole world was against him in one way or another.

((Short, but I didn't have much to post about))

The first creature Taiaka met in the desert was Mother Beetle. She, and her unruly caravan consisting of three sons, came upon the shape shifter after a particularly daunting sand storm and tried to pluck out his eyes. Taiaka, buried beneath a choking quilt of sand, felt Mother Beetle’s antennae against his cheek and woke with a start; looming above was the beetle’s sharp pincers, so tiny, but enormously close.

It was Taiaka’s first introduction to perspective, and the relativity of such an intangible ideal. He spent six months tooling around with Mother Beetle, listening to her stories, learning her ways, and supporting her from the lost of her children to a lizard. The world was a different place when you’re only two-inches tall: Only the distance to the stars remains the same. But if the world was flat, a beetle would never find its edge. Especially if it has to dodge snake holes and sand storms on the way.

Perhaps he did not learn the art of wandering from Mother Beetle, but he learned something of survival and black humor. She was unceremoniously caught in the talons of a hawk one day; Taiaka distinctly heard the crunch of her shell, and conceivably, a scream of terror when it landed and ate her. He thanked her for her sacrifice because from her death came his knowledge of Hawk and the new shape his body could take. From Hawk came man once again when the nomads shot arrows and slung bullets at the strange bird that flew at night over their camp. Taiaka had always been reckless, but lucky, and he learned much about being a hunter by becoming prey.

“I’m no one’s tool, sir,” the beetle spoke in a very clear albeit clipped, voice, “the bird would have been upon me by dusk if you didn’t come clomping up, scaring it away.” He gestured with his legs as if they were hands, obviously annoyed.

“There are lizard dens and snake hutches too.” The bug folded its legs over its striped belly, “But you probably wouldn’t notice from up there, thinking the stars only burn for you.”

It wasn’t hard to slip from the creature’s grasp and Taiaka buffered himself from the fall by rolling into a bigger beetle. A thud and a pop from the hard collar of armor around the bug’s neck and he tumbled backwards; legs fused, inertia drove him head over heels once again. Fur flung sand like water from a maiden’s shake of her mane, and a large black dog sat on his haunches, staring dimly at the elf.

It was the first thing Taiaka thought of really, he was never at good at making clutch decisions. Back in his clan he knew a big black dog affectionately called Whitey that used to follow him into the deep copses of sweating walnut trees. It bit him incessantly, as if to speak with its teeth, and chased him in great circles before forcing the shape shifter to show his belly. His current pretext was homage to the beast.

“Plus, what use is dinner if you don’t make it to the night?” The dog’s voice was raspy, glass glazed vocal cords could manage no emotion; he spoke with borrowed words, “The sand storm will catch you before you can build a fire, before you can lead your horse to shelter. Perhaps you have your own tricks; I know I have mine, but the whispers on the wind promise only a curtain call. Can you dig a hole or fly away?”

Ultimately, it was a failure on both their behalf’s to feel the storm nip at their heels, and trudge untroubled on towards the promise of another lonely night. But Taiaka knew the separate pages each being wrote their story upon in the desert, some wrote it in ink, others, in blood. There was a certain level of masochism he associated with the lifestyle of a Bedouin; here, each grain of sand was its own oubliette, self fulfilling prophecies or prisons, it made little difference since the result was always the same. Microcosms of thought become temples of existence and tenants of survival, personal vision taken for the limits of the world. No one else hears the conversations with the wind or with a sage bush; no one hears the deep soliloquies spoken in screams. Not even the stars. Or, if they were listening they did not care anymore. Maybe they took on the roles of willing sadists.

“Maybe it is best to abandon our hunger for more pressing issues,” the dog flattened his ears against his chevron shaped skull, and shook his head warily, “because it is not implausible that you know this area better than I, and it is not too far fetched to think that the recent storms have not dredged up some ruin or another. Or if anything, I’ll help you dig a hole.”

A smile from a dog is never a pleasant thing to receive.

The Desert was to be seen as a great entity, often referred to it as “The Father Desert”, a merciless and vicious on, with a strange black humor, who morbidly delights ‘himself’ in making the passerby’s suffer. Many fall victims to the treacherous law of the waste – victims to the natural or unnatural hazards happening above or beneath their feet. Sandstorms or quicksands, preying birds or dangerous terrestrial creatures, they were all there waiting to drain you of life.

Like all great entities, Father Desert also had a bunch of people that revered him, called just as simple: the children of the Desert. They bowed to its power and learned from it. Consisted mainly of those who inhabited the vast bed of sand, the children were taught how to survive and avoid the hazards, eventually making a living in these almost desolated areas. Zekhen was one of them, an ex-figure of quite high respect and importance among his brethren and long scattered clan as he also served as an ambassador, a privilege obtained through a series of rituals. Bloody rituals, to be more exact, it bonded his soul (and still was to that day) to one of the few oasis scattered across Anfauglir: islands of paradise in a sea of hell. He became an oasis protector, and as an exchange the oasis will never allow him to die of thirst as he was gifted with the prized ability to create water out of thin air.

The benefits of being a desert marauder were many, throughout the years he had learned an exceptional fighting style, inspired by the deadly scorpion. Moreover, he had come to know the waste better than his own pockets and how to read certain signs. While it was still clear and calm outside, a vicious sandstorm was coming precisely; and it seemed like he was not the only one who knew that.

A glimpse of frustration the voice of the beetle carried, small as it was he dared look down to the elf and point out his flaws. Yes, Zekhen acted with boldness, but his mind did not start to think that a bug could at all be sentient and was in fact trying to hunt a bird. Oh, the oddity and the awkwardness of the situation…

“And pray tell me, how are you to match with a hawk?” As a matter of fact he did not scare anything away; the winged predator still circled above them, it was for the last couple of times before it flew away, not scared by the man, but by the approaching hazard.

The frustrated tone turned into a philosophical one, but the philosophical beetle did have a point, it pointed out an important aspect of reality that Zekhen only now started to comprehend. Taking that aspect into consideration he started to have a new perspective over life.

His grip was apparently not dexterous enough to seize a beetle more than a minute, the diminutive creature freed itself and fell down to the ground, leaving the elf unsure of how to act next, should he pick it up once more? Chitin became black fur, legs fused, and the size increased; instead of a beetle, there stood a black dog. And any trace of confusion that his mind arose was now dispersed, a shape shifter, the answer to everything. He couldn’t help but admire such a skill, it sure proved useful in any given circumstances. It made him wonder though, what was his real form if he had one at all.

“Plus, what use is dinner if you don’t make it to the night?” Said the dog roughly. Those words resonated through his mind, the shape-shifter did have a point, but he had hoped that he could hunt and take shelter in the ruins before the storm came. But it was already too late, the birds flew away, the lizards and the snakes already hid beneath the sand.

“I am no stranger to sandstorms, and many times before I risked myself and my horse by traveling through the hazard itself, it is not a big deal if you know how to manage it.” But of course, that didn’t happen too many times, there were too many variables that couldn’t be controlled, and if luck had left your side, then death is all that awaited on the other end.

“As a matter of fact, from up here, closer to the stars, I managed to spot something into the distance. I strongly believe that it is the ruins of a former outer wall of Angband, if we hurry, we might reach it before anything else…”

Arching up from the glaring haze of the sand a wavering silhouette of a man clarified into the undeniable form of a man indeed; all of ten feet tall, and built with such a sturdiness that it seemed rather a pine-tree had begun to walk and move. Imagining he heard voices, and saw the shape of horse and rider on one of the dunes he paused, a great hand raising to shade his sight from the sun. Heavy as the grim-set features might be, there was a nobility to them, an inflective wariness in the shadowed eyes that set glittering points of light slowly shifting in the dark orbs. Like the reflection of fireflies upon the surface of a midnight pool. Belted at the narrow waist of the behemoth were two axes. One, the tool of his work- Dravalpiol the Swan-hewer- a woodcutters axe of the common make of his Kin, but gigantic; the other -Beldaclaur the Mighty-splendour- had come to him in a battle. He kept the thing solely so that its wicked intent would not be heeded and enabled by a lesser man. The woodcutter loomed up from the searing sands, having struck a deal with the foul spirit of the axe Beldaclaur, it would remain dormant, its' abhorrent spirit quiet, and in return he would return it to its' master.
Seemingly unaware the screaming waves of the heat the woodcutter walked as methodically as a living machine, like a wood-golem that by some strange chance had been summoned out of living flesh and blood; flaking lips pressed into flat lines, raven hair hanging down over neck and hunched shoulders.
The giant man looked ahead, perceiving with the same certainty as if he was at sea, the brewing of a storm; and he frowned at it; feeling neither fear, nor urgency. The heavy gears of his mind merely ground behind his dark eyes, measuring his resolve against the distance between himself, the storm, and the sole source of comparative safe-haven. Only a little nearer than the hazy front of the storm loomed the only-slightly less threatening walls of ancient Angband.
The woodcutter reached down to his hip, unbelting the Beldaclaur, and he lifted it up to his face in the punishing daylight, but even the hateful glare off the pattern-welded steel could not pierce the shadow of his eyes, for this was Dunimir, West-jewel was his name in the old tongue of his kin, and of all lights, only starlight could fill the eyes of his Kin to brimming.
So Beldaclaur; long now have you lead me. he peered into the glittering steel. What strange force of chance had worked that day, that one whose mind was as heavy and slow-moving as a glacier should have come into ownership of this particular axe. Beldaclaurs subtle insidious evil was rendered useless against Dunimirs Will; whose passions were like those of the earth, seemingly buried too deep, like the magma at the planets core, for anyone to reach; whose ambitions were simple. He looked into the steel whose shifting lights seemed to be a malevolent laughter. I have brought you to the door of Angband, whence you were forged. And the only gate is a storm; what now will you have me do? I deem drowning beneath the rage of this storm will be far worse than the sea. What now would you bid me do? the woodcutter thought to the axe.
The axe gleamed, malevolently none the less, but with encouragement now run Amroch, run mighty horse-stride for your allies, those I have promised you, are nearby now; and they will have need of your strength if any of you are to survive. A great wooden beam will fall in the wind, the beam I have forewarned you of. As you enter the gate, the beam will fall, but you will be ready. You will fend it off, and then you will bear me down into the dark and put me to rest beside my true master.
"Aye then I will run." Dunimir replaced the gargantuan axe at his belt, and settled into a long-strided lope. Then I will have peace. No more cruel voices in the steel. he looked into the glare again, thinking for a moment he saw the shadow again of horse and rider, and bright voices, brimming with intelligence. An Elfs' voice he thought it, and something else. But dismissed the thought and put his head down and ran.

Gossip is something of a commodity in Taiaka’s clan, revered with occult flavor, coveted, and used towards caste pushing and philandering. Although more adept, it wasn’t just the women that practiced the art; convoluted haggling with others’ humility while slinging evidentiary and condemning rumors also caused taproom snickers and fishermen laments. It passed the time; lies became songs, and soon tainted history. Everyone enjoyed a delicately spun tale spoken through a veil.

Stories were something similar, but they did not necessarily usher in the lucrative and lucky. Fairytales and folklore were passed around like Grandmother’s special recipe for wild-berry pie, and there was one to suit everyone’s tastes. Some had been boiled down to a summarizing cliché, or the fiction’s author would become synonymous with some horrible breach of spirituality and tragic downfall. But most retained some morale fiber and were hurled at rebellious children to warn them about perils too difficult to explain to a water-headed youth.

Taiaka’s mother used to speak in torturous parables on those rare occasions when she tried to impart some morsel of knowledge to the boy. To his credit, he would try to understand the meaning to her non sequitur logic, but it was the language she used, the people she portrayed, and the landscapes she sketched with her words that drew his attention. All factors included, it forced him into something of the superstitious romantic, a position where proof was merely a belch from those considered entitled. Taiaka, serendipitously, was not one of them.

“..it is not a big deal if you know how to manage it,” the elf paused, a ripple passed through his stoical masque, “As a matter of fact, from up here, closer to the stars, I managed to spot something into the distance. I strongly believe that it is the ruins of a former outer wall of Angband, if we hurry, we might reach it before anything else…”

Patronizing a dog was a small victory that gained an equally as small a simper from the mutt’s muzzle.

“You are either very foolish, or very brave.” Taiaka said, meekly, as he stood. It was a good representation of a dog, not perfect; his legs were a bit too long and the paws at their ends were a bit too large. He was very thin too, bristling with ribs and hip bones that his patchwork of matted hair did not cover. The dreadlocked mass that started between his ears and slithered down his bony spine tried its best to hide the spots of mange, but fell valiantly short. Only his eyes did not change, from mammal to mammal, they were shattered reminders of the sentience that the mirages of the desert tried to strip away.

And they were squinting scornfully at the elf.

“Don’t you know there are things in the ruins?” Taiaka asked incredulously, jaws snapping dryly, dog brows lifting. This was a fact in his mind from a particularly long and enchanting story his father told him as a child.

The boy did not heed the warning only once, and trotted stubbornly into the fingers of desert that crept closer and closer to his clan year by year. The older boys, the youngest hunters, had just passed their trials and celebrated their newly acquired manhood by challenging the taboos and traditions. Taiaka followed them from a cautious distance all the way to the ruins of a small temple where they said the stars once lived. It was unassuming enough, Taiaka recalled; slanting curry stained stone walls were held up by piles of wind-driven sand and their oddity was the piecemeal plane of shadows they created. The hunters ambled and paced until they became drunk enough on fermented yucca that they discarded their inhibitions and shambled as a unit into the belly of the temple’s corpse. Taiaka, crouched uncomfortably atop the shaded side of a dune downwind, could only watch them disappear and wonder about the mysteries they were discovering. From his wonderment came dreams and by the time he woke, the sky was a sea of black and the hunters were gone.

His father’s story was becoming the boy’s reality: A child from the clan, lost in the desert, thought he could find refuge in the ruins of an abandoned temple. In the hot sun he slept on the crumbling chamber floor and woke in the darkest of night to find himself surrounded by…

“Things!” The dog exclaimed again as his words were made poignant by a gust of convenient wind. The storm was getting closer, Taiaka could feel his chest begin to tighten and his breathing became pink-tongued panting. Nervously, he pawed the sand, lifting his feet one by one until they sank to the ankle, and then started over again.

“Things that will steal your soul or scour the skin from your bones,” With his head down, the dog seemed to be speaking to himself more than the elf. All his life he had avoided the ruins that peppered the hardpan, choosing to give them a wide birth and a prayer. He had also avoided man as well; that story seemed to be true considering he was now stuck between a rock and a hard place. Good judgment dictated that he should be more concerned about the corporeal instead of worrying about creepies that supposedly live in places he’s never been.

Taiaka was tired; he had used up a preciously small reserve of energy shifting out of the elf’s hand. Relatively, it took little effort for a man to sustain the guise of a beetle, he didn’t need much and he could stay that way for years. A dog was much harder to maintain when coming from nothing; although shifting again might cause him to slip into something unintended and ill-fitting. The later was dangerous, especially in strange company, but no more than an accidental shift into his true form. Unless he was planning on marrying the elf, the dog ruminated, such would be quite unacceptable.

Finally, he routed his thoughts and conceded.

“I will follow you and your hoofed jinx.” Taiaka snorted, balding tail flaccid against his flank, “I will try and keep up.”

And the oasis too got desecrated from to time, rendering its protector unable to call forth the ‘gift’, that vital liquid so prized in the waste. Desecrated it was – the water no longer drinkable, the soil no longer productive and little vegetation it had, refused to grow any longer – by the malevolent or merely ignorant spirit of a passerby who chose to take a refreshing turn to their journey and bath they miserable body into the pool. An act of such gravity could only pay in spilled-blood.

As a present of the Desert to its people the oasis too shared its characteristics, it had two sides: it was brutal and gentle – ugly and beautiful – spring of life and death. But always, ‘she’ expressed herself in all of her might and splendor.
But who could perceive the meaning and the intensity of these words other than her own protector? Who could perceive the oasis as a ‘virgin maiden’ other than him? His purifying blade often served for her cause and for her own sake; few were those spared…

Was he Brutal – perhaps; Evil – never!

Upon the pages of sand, Zekhen’s history is writing itself in crimson strictly…

***

“You are either very foolish, or very brave.” Rather than being offended by the statement, Zekhen played and amused himself with those words, and ever so subtle he flashed a smile upon his dried lips. Formidable was his attitude in front of a hazard, while the atmosphere already started to unsettle, a vague breeze picked the particles of sand into the air and made them fly past them, the horse too became unsettled, calmed down only by a pat on the mane from its master.

The storm was close!

“Things?!” Snapped the sandy elf with surprise, “things?!”. It seemed that the shape shifter did not have the same attitude in front of the danger as himself, but nevertheless those things made him wonder. “The things,” It was for the third time when he repeated that word “are probably some of my acquaintances!” That if the standing dog referred to those people that often took shelter in the ruins of once a great fortress; by all means, Zekhen was one of them, the core of his society often expressing itself in the ruins most of the time. Legends traveled high and low about a long-lost great civilization upon which Angband has been built, and about long-lost spirits which still inhabited their crumbled-to-ruins ‘work of art’. From his point of view, the dog sounded a little paranoid and even afraid. However, that did not stop him from continuing to admire and respect the abilities with which the shape shifter has been gifted, he could have been a perfect hunter.

The man shook his head. “I've never had the pleasure of meeting a ghost before, but if today will be day when I will, then I am ready to face them with a smile!” And a blade; only the desert was responsible for his tough and rough attitude. “Or if anything, I will help you dig a hole, before I’ll go to safety myself.” Zekhen turned the dog’s own words against himself, with a slight cockiness in his voice. “Or you could always turn back into a bug and attach yourself to my clothes.” It was an idea, but he wasn’t sure how the other man will accept it.

“I will follow you and your hoofed jinx. I will try and keep up.” Going past his fears, he finally conceded. Those words came like a soft music to Zekhen’s ears, though it was for the first time when someone called his horse a ‘hoofed jinx’, he wondered what the shape shifter meant by that. More pressing issues knocked on their door, however.

“Good, he replied, let’s get moving then, we don’t have much time.” He feared that the little conversation they had would prove to be a later impediment in their race to safety; they will have to face the storm fully for the final part.

Meanwhile the mount pulled closer, and steadily Zekhen climbed into the saddle. A piece of cloth covered his mouth and nose, and he lowered his hate a little over his eyes.

He prepared for the worst!

((Giving Dunimir the chance to catch up with us...))

The woodcutter halted upon the saddle of a high dune, parting his feet to brace himself against the coming onslaught. What he saw was not one storm, but two individual storms, one from the west, and one from the east.
By strange chance the warm-air of the western storm was coming in close the the ground, sucking the searing heat off the desert, and striving to rise higher into the heavens; but the freezing air of the eastern storm was dropping in from on high, its dark forces trying to penetrate the hot-storm to reach the now chilled ground. The turmoil was an increasing din of vicious thunder, and forked lightening, as the very friction of air and sand reached critical mass. The deserts' own air, like a heavy blanket, was being spat out by the pressure between the storm-fronts in blasts at once clammy and too hot to bear, and yet in the next instant bone-numbingly frozen. The dunes whined and moaned as the ever increasing wind gnawed at them with unseen but razor-sharp teeth, with the flicker of static, and a breathy hiss.
Never had the wood-cutter, from a long line of mariners and ship-wrights ever seen such a battle between the elements, and he drew a warding sign in the air before himself.
Slowly, like the gears of a heavy machine, the grim realisation formed in his mind that drowning in this ocean of sand was not as easy to avoid as beneath the water of the sea. Even as he delayed Dunimir watched the sand rise up to his ankles. He would soon be buried if he did not keep moving.
He ground his teeth, not knowing which of the three bleak options to dare: to take the western route, in the squalling and breathless warm air of the western storm; or the frozen, lightening-forked east. Or to brave the blasting sands in between.
Even as he made the resolution to brave the eastern chill, there was a shrill wind that threw up an impenetrable curtain of flesh-eating sand. Then it was, that one moment too late, he saw the rider, and a lanky black hound...
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and Dunimir shivered, even as he saw them through the dirty haze of the screaming sands: for here were the allies that Beldaclaur had enaugured, but they were beyond Dunimirs' reach, headed for the stronghold of Angband, and with a lead.
Dunimir surged forward like a battle-charger his head held low, and eyes all but closed, and his breath coming raggedly, through fits of coughing and sneezing. The humid air seemed to choke even his skin for want of air, so that he ran with sweat, and his thirst came upon him with even more anguish. But his feet strode forth, one after the other, with the brute strength of his size and stamina. Perhaps another man, in spite of Dunimirs obvious strength might have failed in that desperate dash toward Angband; for the only thing that really kept Dunimir moving, was that the glacier-slow movement of his mind had not yet begun to doubt whether he could. Dunimir kept running, regardless of the pain, though his mouth foamed, and his eyes ran streaming with blood.
Even so he ran into the lee of the walls of Angband, whence the wall of the wind into which he had been pressing was abated, but fitful whirlwinds wandered here and there, so that the wood-cutter had to dodge them or be flung high into the air. If he had a voice with which to call out, Dunimir would have bellowed like a bull, seeing the rider and the hound ahead, still, and nearing the gates, and their peril.
He managed a burst of speed such as a beast puts on when it no longer cares for its' life. The mindless strength that fills a rat as it faces down a wolf. Dunimir ran recklessly so that he felt as if his very sinews were tearing from his bones. And as if in slow motion, he saw far above the rider and the hound, an ancient trebouchet which had been mounted above the gate. And its' great boom worked itself loose in the wind, and began to fall seemingly as slowly as a tumbling leaf.
With a groan the woodcutter leapt forth, and his faithful Dravalpiol the woodcutting axe of his kin, was in his hands, and he leapt almost as high as the riders' shoulders, and he smote the falling beam with swan-hewer to that it was cloven in twain, and the halves fell to each side of the other two, and the haft of the mighty axe shattered.
Dunimir staggered, then, a few halting steps forward, the hilt-shards falling from his limply hanging arms. He bumped into the wall, and leant against it, feeling the total drain of his effort to reach Angband, to deliver the Rider and the Hound from their doom.
Dunimir was near senseless, though he remained on his feet. He did not know it, but he was slowly laughing, for if indeed what he had achieved was the last thing he would ever achieve he was glad of it.
He turned to the rider and hound"Ah me! I am spent" he said, his voice as deep as the rolling thunder, and dragged a hand across his face, only now seeing the blood that ran freely from his eyes, and that it had sodden his shirts and trousers. "But I reached you before the beam. That was a good thing." he smiled bloodily, looking almost eye to eye with the rider, then, as if the thought had just occured to him, Dunimir asked, "Do you have any water?"

A snail had a better chance of outrunning a herd of elephants than did the thin black dog have of escaping the whip and whirl of the sandstorm. Ozone was the night’s perfume, and Taiaka was bathed in the numbing buzz long before the first gale of grit scrubbed the skin from his shoulders and bathed his flanks. The swarm did not roll in like a foppish rainstorm and loll upon him like a push out the door; it crashed down with a wail, swathed him in a strangling hug, and drowned him until all that existed was the burn in his lungs and an inch in front of his face. Before the world had collapsed into tunnel vision, Taiaka had seen the bleached spine of manmade wall, loose like a rotting tooth in the sand, rise from the flat heat. He chased the elf over the dunes, lost in the horse’s wash, but now he saw only a sliver of cloudy daylight through scrunched eyelids. All he could hear was the sting of static and the tinny hum and squeals of the seemingly preternatural squall.

So he ran, as fast as dog’s paws and dog muscles could take him: He ran towards the smoldering memory of that ruined wall and the awkward shadow it had cast. The pall of sand prevented him from seeing the remnants of man that breached the landscape and rose to blot the horizon the closer he got. There were no pauses or momentary lapses of motivation in Taiaka’s resolve; every fiber of his being begged to be knitted back into that safe shape with ten fingers and ten toes. The shorter his breaths became, the faster he ran until he thought he saw a shadow chasing him through the dizzying fury. Lightning created ribbons of glass and the thunder never seemed to stop; no sight, no sound, just the pound and push, pound and push of his dead muscles and grinding joints.

Suddenly his paws could no longer find the ground and he felt his body pitch and roll into the air. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out; his cry was swallowed by the impish winds and he bit his lip when his body was callously released and deposited in a heap. Something groaned but Taiaka had already scrambled to his feet and was too busy trying to muffle the ringing in his ears to notice. There was a crack and a pop, then a blinding flash of light accompanied by a warm sensation that ended when his vision vibrated. All he could see was a creamy gray haze when his skull bounced off of something too solid to be sand.

And then there was no more wind.

Taiaka lay on his hip with his temple pressed against the cool stone floor and concentrated to remain conscious. His hand, stretched out in front of him, was bloody and raw and he could feel the same warm wet sting crawling up his arms, biting his stomach and chest. Splinters of wood had lodged themselves into his thighs and he smelled the stale air fill with lively copper as he tried the lift himself off the ground. But all he could do was cough. The pain cleared his mind and triggered the blessed release of fresh adrenaline into his system. From that, it only took a few more moments of listening to the whoosh of his pulse before the lulling daze became an all too sharp reality.

The dust was still settling when Taiaka sprang to his feet as if unscathed. As he straightened up, one hand held against his belly, he saw the snarl of debris that littered the floor and took a few steps back until he flattened himself against the gritty wall. The ringing in his ears hadn’t exactly subsided and his lungs felt as if they had been scoured down to the raw nerves, but overall it was just the staggering terror of looking like a man that consumed him.

But then he heard a horrible sound that covered his skin in goose-flesh; it sounded like a laugh. Wiry dreadlocks tumbled from his shoulders and fell to the small of his back as Taiaka whiped his head around, eyes lost in the mica flecked gloom. These have to be the ruins the elf was talking about, he thought, intent on the fear of the unknown once again. His watery vision could only make out flashing silhouettes and he could feel the poorly sewn waist of his monochrome kilt flutter against his navel every time he inhaled.

There was something or someone there.

The gods spoke with the boom of thunder and Taiaka threw himself into the wall he leaned against when the voice filled the way-station. Spooked, he pressed back and forth like a caged animal; the splinters in his legs and rib cage ground along the rough stone like so many record needles, digging deeper, and hands searched fruitlessly for a crack or alcove. He was feral, feeling cornered and without the aid of his vital senses.

He bit down on the split in his lip and his chest rumbled from the influx of welcomed pain. The ruins held an echo that resonated far beyond what he could see and he knew they must stretch on for miles, whether above the ground or not. There could be tunnels that led to Angband or long parched aqueducts made of hand carved blocks of limestone: Taiaka hoped there was something other than ‘things’ in the insolvent wasteland and cold marble floors beneath his bare feet.

But he had nowhere to go, no energy to slip into something more comfortable and scuttle away. Taiaka lost his footing during his mad scramble to flee and ended up tripping over a clunky length of wooden beam. Awkwardly, he lurched to the side, fell, and clambered on his hands and knees as if the ungainly topple was intended. He hid as best he could behind the thick plank, coiled his wounded body tightly, and hoped everyone would forget about the dog.

A glance to the left and another to the right; enough for Zekhen to notice the supernatural hazard they were about to face, it was not one, but two of them. The deathwind was a terrible threat of the waste, feared throughout the planes. The phenomenon of such a threat propels sand with such velocity that it reduces your average living creature to bare bones within hours, and exposed bone to fine powder in a matter of days. Most of the deathwinds last up to a staggering period of 14 hours, but those of legends have lasted for days.
As if possessed by panic, Zekhen spurred his steed without a further word into a mad race against the desert – against those two storms of opposite natures, one natural and the other supernatural: he found himself in a worst case scenario circumstance and did not like it one bit. A deep breath inhaled and held forcefully into his dry lungs before the prelude of the storm came rolling like thunder over his being with an imaginable force and cruelty. He has taken the hazard fully, and much sooner than he expected. The effects of the deathwinds, soon to be felt, lashed small particles of sand at him like a whip that slashed his exposed skin to the verge of cracking beneath its pressure.

Small tears of blood and microscopic particles of flesh and fabric dropped into the deadly mix, accompanied by an agonizing pain.

Unable to look behind or even hear anything else than the frightening howl of the storm, the elf was not sure that the shape shifter was still on his tail. Unaware he was about the suffering he had to endure and about his almost failed attempt to get to safety. This was unlike what Zekhen’s stated earlier, it was a storm that you could not deal with, not even if you were made of granite. And yet, he failed to grasp that vital piece of information from the atmosphere, he failed to warn the other that he would unable to manage a such force in the form of a lanky dog.

The wind became gentle and stopped lashing out as the first set of ruins focused themselves into the sight of the elf, despite their morbid and cold appearance they brought an unimaginable feeling of ‘warmth’ and safety to anyone that used that place as a shelter, to come and think those stones were baptized into tons of blood centuries ago.
With a powerful pull of the reins, the fatigued stallion came to a sudden stop, hot vapors of steam evacuating its nostrils every time it tried to breath. It seemed that its body’s temperature was even hotter than that of the desert. With a glance around, Zekhen’s keen eye caught the sight of the injured shape shifter scuttling away behind a thick plant; he approached the injured creature and tried to distinguish the nature of his wounds. He did not look good…

Zekhen’s clan valued the horse above everything else, aware of the clear advantage the apparently simple mount offered them in battle. And not only that but also traveling on horseback was much easier, faster and less tiring. Without his trusted horse, the desert elf would have fallen victim to the hazard since long with no real chances of reaching the shelter in time. The superstitious and current inhabitants of Angband believed that the supernatural waste hazards appeared only as a consequence to foreign adventurers and their trespassing over the bed of sand; with their presence they brought destruction upon everyone else so it was in the nature of their beliefs to try and stop them before anything else.
He inherited the habit of adorning his mount with many trinkets and camouflages of complicated shapes and patterns from his people, thus he could easily be distinguished as a child of the desert, Zekhen could easily pass through any places without risking his safety beyond commonsense. The trebuchet firing at a native was an atypical action of those in Angband, and if it wasn’t for some extremely tall, almost giant-like stranger to protect him Zekhen would have died a stupid death. Unaware of the giant’s intentions and startled by his sudden appearance, the horse frightened and reared suddenly, threatening to knock the ‘attacker’ off with its front hooves. Zekhen was not given the time to start thinking why did the trebuchet target him.

The tarider calmed his horse, bringing it on all fours once more before he had a chance to hop off the saddle and give the faithful animal a well-deserved race. His attention was split between the shape shifter and the new sun-shadowing appearance; judging by how he looked the giant too faced the hazard. “I owe you my life…” he said, gratitude filling his voice while he started to wipe off his own blood that poured from the several cuts that adorned his tanned face, “come now, have a seat and rest, I will bring you water in no time. What is your name, tall one?” It would have been much easier to converse by having him seated, he was so tall that the elf could not believe his eyes. A man of that stature required a lot of water for sustenance. He took two leather-skins used to carry water from a traveling bag attached to the saddle of his horse, and offered the largest one to his savior. “Enjoy, it is the purest of waters you can get around here… but please excuse me a little!” With that he turned and made his way over to the injured shape shifter. “Are you okay, do you require some water too?” They were so close to Angband... but at least they made it to safety before the true face of the deathwinds was shown. For almost 14 hours they will have the endure those ruins, and perhaps get to meet eachother better.

He has not forgot about the dog.

Beyond the shelter of the walls the storm waxed in strength. In the distance the narrow root of a whirlwind snaked down from the higher clouds, a dark vein of anguished wind, which flashed to sudden pitch-black as it touched down upon the dunes, vacuuming its maelstrom full of sand. The dry hiss of sand being blasted and scoured across the long-enduring stone of the ancient walls reached a shrill shriek; the the very walls, from the vast friction and heat of the blasting sands smoked and steamed, and vines of static electricity licked across their frowning faces.
The giant woodcutter felt the skilled and strong hands of the desert elf upon his arms and shoulders, encouraging him to sit, and to drink. The ageless voice, brimming with age and wisdom made him feel safe, so that he put aside all fear, surely this elf of the dunes must be the ally which the accursed axe has promised. Dunimir mused slowly.
“I owe you my life…” the elf spoke.
Dunimir was troubled and a little confused by the elf-lords words of thanks, and the elfs' vow that he owed Dunimir his life. that is a perilous promise for one who will live forevermore to make the woodcutter mused.
"I am Dunimir, lord Elf, from the coasts far to the west of the Laithfalas, which you might know as the Sanctuary of the Angels. You have the look of those who live within these perilous sands. Are you one of the Tariders? And have I come at last to the ruins of Angband?" Upon his aching shoulders Dunimirs head felt so heavy that it would break him in half, as gravity pressed its terrible weight down upon him. He crumpled at the knees, leaning with his back against the wall, and gratefully accepted the waterskins, carefully washing the sand and dried blood from his eyes.
No sooner had he managed this than his tortured eyes began to swell, and he was plunged into darkness. The giant woodcutter was aware of the dangerous searing cold of his sweat, of the trembling in his every muscle, even to the tips of his fingers. In his head, his eyes felt like two points of black burning flame, and his breath rasped in his parched throat, and he had coughing fits he could not quell, even with water. He felt like a small animal trapped in a tight dark cage.
Dunimir took a last close look at his allies, he took in the sight of the cringing dog, whose eyes looked knowingly into his own.
"Come master black-lock" he beckoned to the hound, encouraging it to come to him."the sand has taken my sight from me; I know you can understand me, I beg you, come and be my eyes." Even as he made this last request, the swelling of his eyelids took on the full extent of pressure, so that it felt as if someone was pressing knuckles into his eye sockets; he reached out his hands, his face showing his fear, and his need.

Taiaka stands and lets his arms fall to his sides; the need to shield his eyes from the glare of the pink remnants of the sun diminishes. He feels the tips of his fingers brush against his flat thighs and remembers the weight of her wrist across his chest in the middle of the night. Deep within the hollows of his body, the space between his collar bone and neck, the depressions of his hipbones, the empty suck of air into his lungs, he thinks he sees her smile. He imagines himself an author of great novels but his hands are too stiff to write any more words. He will not tell the world their story so he writes it in the margins of borrowed library books, smearing the words because he has no pen and must draw the ink out with the curve of his thumb. The pages were always her body; the sentences were the weight of her wrist in a night so dark all he could do was memorize the sensation.

She is the desert.

He hears her voice but it is from a time when he was a child, a boy of volcanic presence that slept soundly because he knew she would be there when dawn tossed songbirds into the molted blue sky. They were not kin of the city. They sat in the branches of ancient trees chewing cold breakfasts but exchanging warm looks. The stars made them laugh like sinners and faith was the distance between her hand, white knuckled and delicate, griping at the reigns of an untamed horse, and his. An author and an explorer, Taiaka had devoted the wounded parts of himself to the swiftly curdling memory of her laughing face. He had drawn maps and charts of her pleasures on the backs of his arms. His mullets would giggle under the jagged lines his fingernails raised on their breasts and backs. They would think he was tracing the patterns of their freckles when he was there only to remember the curve of desert’s hot body.

He is not that boy anymore. His clothing is modern and it does not show the spurs and valleys of his hollow depressions. His belly is covered by a strip of bone buttons and his long-sleeved shirt is tucked into a pair faded denim pants that were recently patched at the knees. He wears copper rings on his fingers, silver loops in his ears, and beads carved from silky soapstone in his hair. There is blood. He retreats into the periphery as a man, his feet are still bare. But he dreams of the desert between them, a barrier of time and emotion, a sea made up of mica and quartz and granite that was stretched even beyond the horizon of time.

Somewhere, beasts lurked. Horrible creatures of jealousy and loneliness tested his character, measuring his sanity and separating it into little wooden cups that he could pour out into the refuse strewn streets. But it slips through his fingers as sugary sand.

The black dog has fewer thoughts than the man. But the man pretends to understand more.

His senses reel as the magic fades away like a puff of warm breath on a cold night. He is himself; a tall dark-skinned man with snakes of dreadlocks dragging behind him.

The elf was there, Taiaka saw him. The horse was there too, it had spoken. No, that’s what the dog thought. The dog thought the gods had come to finally pound his bones into dust and the horse was their harbinger. But it wasn’t the horse, and it wasn’t the elf. It certainly wasn’t the gods. Instead, it was a mountain of a man with swollen eyes and a deep panicky voice.

Taiaka is an older gentleman with fine lines at the corners of his mouth and dark purple rings beneath his eyes. He moves stiffly, without the grace of an animal, and without the augmented senses. Between the splintered wooden beam that once belonged to a dead trebuchet and crumbling mortar, he sets his feet carefully. There are shards of wood in his legs and chest, and the backs of his hands and the tops of his feet have been worn raw and gory from the gritty sandstorm. He spat precious globs of bloody spittle and wondered if something inside him had been damaged, but his lip was split at the side. He toyed with the cut and ran his tongue over his flat teeth. It had been thirteen years since he had been in the form of a man. He is dying.

He stands and stares at the faces lined in a row behind the lids of his regret, staring at the culture of their frown and the purity of their contempt as if he is an uninvited guest. But he doesn’t go forward. And he doesn’t go back. He just speaks. Maybe its love, and maybe its lust, and maybe it’s the cold spot just behind his eyes. They cant their heads and maybe it’s the maybes that willed him to lie.

He will not speak of his sore displeasure or of the many obvious observations man so loves to disseminate. Instead, he uses his sleeve to smear the blood and sand and sweat from his cheeks.

“You have not seen, Dunimir. The elf knows. I think perhaps his horse told him. But I am no dog. Well, no longer.” Taiaka’s thoughts were slowly knitting themselves together like broken bones. As fragmented as they were, he was forced to pause, and swallow a mouthful of sand and blood before he could continue.

“I cannot be a dog again. Not tonight. I cannot be a beetle or a cat or a bird that can fly away from these ruins and away from you….I can be your eyes no more than you can be my skin.”

He turns his pale eyes to the elf and slowly nods, “Try not to remember my face.” It is the preamble to a tired faith, “But we cannot stay here. Your jinx cannot carry weight and our wounds carry the scent of our own deaths to the predators of Lady Desert. I am frightened of things in the ruins. I am frightened of men that stand on two legs. I am frightened because I cannot lick the sand from the eyes of the giant.” He shivers.

Zekhen refused to look at himself, he refused to acknowledge his torn flesh and wounds that reopened the deepest of his scars, he did not want to fall into the charms of the morbid lady known as agony, he couldn’t! He had to ignore everything in spite of the pain that surged, pounded and danced through his nervous system on the rhythm of his heartbeat. The elf refused to admit defeat!
Discipline and mental training allowed him to wrap the reality around his own needs and deceive himself to believe that he was still at power and be helped to focus on other things currently at hand. Events succeeded one another with a bewildering speed, too fast for him to process and comprehend everything at a time.

Portrayed as either a Father or a Lady, the Desert was merciless and ever changing, and it bestowed the end upon the three unfortunates in the shape of a tremendous deathwind. Why and under what circumstances the three of them got tossed together into that dangerous twister, could it be a mere coincidence, or a force beneath their understanding. Probably the second, as the elf learned never to treat this type of situations as mere coincidences; this concept was a fake one, everything in the world happened with a higher or lower purpose.

Beyond those walls, the storm was still howling its story, and live its half-a-day existence, with force it managed to mock the men trapped inside. As they were strapped of power and grew weaker, the hazard became more powerful and dangerous triggering a series of other unnatural effects in its wake. It was far from being over, but what would happen if those ancient walls would choose to crumble beneath the increasing force of the deathwind? Zekhen couldn’t even try to think of the consequences of such unfortunate course of things.

His life would end, and his vow will be a short-lived one.

Interrupted in his thoughts by the rolling out-loud voice of the giant, Zekhen shook his head and turned his attention to his savior. Despite his fading sight, Dunimir managed to catch the little detail that defined the elf.

“You are right, I grew upon this lifeless and arid soil, I was taught everything I know under this cruel sun, and I have slept with the nightmares of the waste each night, for over a century now. While I do not know what a Tarider is, I am afraid that Angband might be indeed within our grasp, but reaching to it would be impossible under these circumstances.” He demanded patience with his voice, no matter what wrapped the goal of the woodcutter.

The imposing physique of Dunimir soon balanced with frail and bleeding eyes, caused by the particles of sand that ravaged his orbs. Surrounded by a blinding giant and injured shape shifter, Zekhen, of all, was in the best shape. Such a responsibility weighted on his shoulders. He remained hanging with the second water skin, completely ignored by the injured and lanky dog; eventually he returned it to the saddle of his horse and gazed intensely at his mount, what made it so special into the eyes of the shifter, why was it called a jinx, what the Horse represented in the man’s culture.
Bizarre if not peculiar, the master of many forms shifted again, was this his true form? A face that was nor ugly or handsome, nor dull or intriguing, with nothing he stood out but his dreadlocked hair. ‘Try not to remember my face!’ How could he, his mind refused to memorize any of his features, was this another of his gift, or a curse? The man sheds a strange aura that instantly made something twitch beneath Zekhen’s billowy clothing and move up his sleeve; the form of a white-furred squirrel, seemingly unharmed by the previous race emerged into the clearing and quickly made its way to the shifter, climbing his leg and back, eventually stopping on his shoulder. Poor Niveus, he was just as confused, intrigued and attracted by his presence.

“Niveus…” He whispered.

“I am afraid that we still don’t have anything to eat, and this storm will go and go for another…” He looked at the sky and the sand that formed a cloud above them. “…thirteen hours at least. We need to cooperate!” He hoped that none of them will have to resume to cannibalism or attempt to ‘eat his horse’ for that matter. Shortly after, he moved back to the giant and sat beside him, with his back leaned against the same wall.

“I am known as Khaldun Zekhen around here.” He introduced himself. “But on a different note, how might you be, will your eyes ever be back to normal?” The elf was unsure, he was no healer and didn’t know too many things about different types of injuries, and it was for the first time when someone blinded from the sand, truly he was not a man of this place.

There was at least one more thing that managed to haunt his mind, stronger than the pain haunted his physique, what was that beam that almost fell upon him but shattered the axe of his savior instead?

Meanwhile the albino squirrel was still on the shape shifter's shoulder, looking like it was enjoying it there more than it ever did on Zekhen's. He could blame his old fellow for this, he was never a master good enough for such a sensitive animal.

"Fear not my friend and have confidence, for the Desert is a fearful entity to behold, but only to the unfaithful. We will find a way through..." But did he believe those words or he has just taken the role of a leader who needed to motivate his comrades and bring them home safe, unharmed or at least alive. He didn't know either.



((Eek, kinda crappy))

poem adapted from Crawford

Dunimir allowed the strong voice of the elf wash over him, the Elfs age and confidence like water dancing down into the dim deeps if Dunimirs shadowed soul. The gigantic woodcutter shivered, and hunched upon himself, his hand still smarting from the complete shattering of the axe, his sight flickering with violent pulses of red and black, and soul-spearing white.
What strange force was at work, Dunimir could scarcely conceive. The grinding-glacier force of his mind was all but consumed solely with the task of trying not to scream and flail. His muscles flinching and clenching, his breath coming in gasps, and his hair stuck to his scalp with sweat. But when the other voice spoke, both beast and man, Dunimir felt as if a little light appeared the in darkness. Little Black-lock. the giant again reached blindly for the shape-shifter. "Come closer if you will. Here, Dunimir dropped his remaining axe, the accursed Beldaclaur, and set it on the ground, pushing it out of reach with his foot. "See, I am unarmed, and I am in the dark; but when you speak, I feel my fear ease. You may be afraid, and well you should I deem, for even the Elf sounds afraid, but my fear falls away from me when I hear your voice. Here, let me begin it, if it pleases you; a song -let me trade you, a song of my people"
And thusly the giant went still, but within him, the terrible power of the glacier was at work, and as the giant turned the earth-rending weight of his thought to the task of singing, all of his pain was forgotten. A voice began to thrum within him, as if some giant among viols, and string with silver, was being drawn by a bow of gold filigree. Dunimirs was a voice of deep dells in which lightless waters murmur eternally to themselves, remembering a time when the Dark was Fearless; before the coming of Elves, before the Forest sprang up. Dunimirs voice was of the rumour of thunder beyond the horizon, and the moan of salt wind over bruised gray seas.
A startled stag, the blue-grey Night,
Leaps down beyond black pines.
Behind--a length of yellow light--
The hunter's arrow shines:
His hunting boots are stained with red,
He bends upon his knee,
From covering peaks his shafts are sped,
The blue mists plume his mighty head,--
Well may the swift Night flee!

The pale, pale Moon, a snow-white doe,
Bounds by his dappled flank:
They beat the stars down as they go,
Like wood-bells growing rank.
The winds lift dewlaps from the ground,
Leap from the quaking reeds;
Their hoarse bays shake the forests round,
With keen cries on the track they bound,--
Swift, swift the dark stag speeds!

Away! his white doe, far behind,
Lies wounded on the plain;
Yells at his flank the nimblest wind,
His large tears fall in rain;
Like lily-pads, small clouds grow white
About his darkling way;
From his bald nest upon the height
The red-eyed eagle sees his flight;
He falters, turns, the antlered Night,--
The dark stag stands at bay!

His feet are in the waves of space;
His antlers broad and dun
He lowers; he turns his velvet face
To front the hunter, Sun;
He stamps the lilied clouds, and high
His branches fill the west.
The lean stork sails across the sky,
The shy loon shrieks to see him die,
The winds leap at his breast.

Roar the rent lakes as thro' the wave
Their silver warriors strike,
As vaults from core of crystal cave
The strong, fierce silvered pike;
Fall's council-fires are lit;
The bittern, squaw-like, scolds the air;
The wild duck splashes loudly where
The rustling rice-spears knit.

Shaft after shaft the red Sun speeds:
Rent the stag's dappled side,
His breast, fanged by the shrill winds, bleeds,
He staggers on the tide;
He feels the hungry waves of space
Rush at him high and blue;
Their white spray smites his dusky face,
Swifter the Sun's fierce arrows race
And pierce his stout heart thro'.

His antlers fall; once more he spurns
The hoarse hounds of the day;
His blood upon the crisp blue burns,
Reddens the mounting spray;
His branches smite the wave--with cries
The loud winds pause and flag--
He sinks in space--red glow the skies,
The brown earth crimsons as he dies,
The strong and dusky stag.