Guile was the air Obai breathed. Shifting sands hid the truth in coarse folds, constantly obscuring and revising the surface and it was this lesson that the desert, the Wastelands, taught. Thus, the man lived his life half hidden, unstable as the dunes.

Over the tawny sea the wind swept like a great hand, erasing the long furrows of footsteps even as the man made them. His bare feet plunged down, shins catching in the heated glassy grit; his laborious steps carving trenches amid the wastes. One sickly pale eye squinted against the lucid glare of the sun, a green the hue of a flawed emerald. Pressed tightly over the bridge of his angular nose, a thin black cloth covered his pallid, milky flesh. Another length of cloth slanted across the side of his face, concealing his right eye beneath the dark fabric. Only his left eye, like a piece of pale jade lay visible in the patch of night.

His garb was simple, practicality at its finest. Leggings, dark and faded, hugged about his lower legs, long shreds tied to hold the billowing fabric about his calves. It served well enough to keep the sand and grit from worming its way farther up his leg, leaving only his feet and clawed toes buried in the burning desert. The shirt was gathered at the cuffs and it looked too large for his lithe nearly slender frame, spilling from his shoulders and draping loosely down his back. Raven hair hung just to the curve of his jaw, brushing his dark linen mask with its uniform length. Unlike his drab clothing, his hair was a shuddering aurora of dark light gleaming in the searing rays of the desert sun. A slim length of pewter chain rested atop his jutting collar bone, a bare shine against the bolts of black cloth.

The shimmering horizon taunted him, always just beyond reach tracing wet lines in the air. It was this loss of time and uncertainty that had put Obai in a foul mood. That single emerald eye scanned the dusky dunes incredulously. Beads of perspiration tumbled down the back of his neck, the cool salt of sweat sucking the thin fabric against his jutting backbone. A pale hand moved to wipe wetness from his left cheek, lengthy taloned fingers shielding the glare from his view. The man paused, shooting the sun a baleful glance before he scanned the waves of heat. He had expected to catch sight of the dark rise of stone by now, a patch of welcome green that would precede the city.

Eons of travel had all but deadened his ears to that but the chittering of locust wings, the dry hush of the wasteland remodeling itself. Dust lay across a dry tongue, the taste of life long leeched away, replaced by the bitter tang of cactus water. Savagery and survivalism were hardly points that Obai could be defined by; a traveler made and not born. But it was in that breath of wind, that taste of words whispered from lips of a desert wind, that the man awoke.

Dusky embers savaged naked soles as the dark clad figure paused, crusade halted by the breath of wind at his back. Shimmering waves of heat rolled of the tawny dunes; prevarications that sprouted ill fruits and the empty promise of precipitation. Each little turn the desert tossed so languidly in his path was a mirage mirrored in that single, paranoid eye and as the guttural words wafted down to him from the crests of sand, Obai found only amusement.

A slick, white toothed smile spread beneath the cusp of his dark mask, a parody of emotion shining through that single washed green eye. His heat-baked brain quailed, wary of the untruths that the words spat upon him. The man uttered a high, tittering chuckle and moved a clothed forearm to his brow, peering into the searing crests of hot grit.

Illusions had been cast like knuckle-bones before him too often in a hand’s span of time for true stock to be taken in what he saw. Across the sun-soaked horizon, a dark figure blotted out the incandescent glare, a exalted silhouette in the sea of sand. It was an imposing thing, this man that stood before him, shrouding Obai in a flash of darkness; a welcome relief from the blistering heat. He smiled knowingly, the flash of even teeth obscured by cloth.

It was not a matter of succumbing to the inevitable for Obai, but rather embracing the little twinges of insanity that the wasteland was leeching from his brain. Failure to reach his destination was not an option for him, simply because he neglected to look so far into his own future as to ponder an outcome.

His childhood was the first time he witnessed the sand. Infact, the midwife rearing him allowed him to gaze out the window after he was born - out into the endless wastes of the desert beyond. His youth was spent playing in it with friends from the estate, but his adulthood - well, his adulthood was spent watching it for raiders, threats, and the countless dangers lurking just outside the safety of the few walled outposts.

It had been almost three months since he set foot in these deserts - since he was forced out of them by beasts of an unclean nature. It was sobering - he crossed the threshold of the grasslands fading to scrub three days ago, and finally secured solid sand underfoot. He made sure before he left Lomedor he had purchased the right clothing - he refitted himself for desert travel. Padded leather - nothing heavier, else he'd die before the day was out. Light clothing. Wide boots. He knew this desert - despite the comfortable conditions he lived in growing up in it. A blade hung low at his hip - secured by a firm, brown-leather sheath clipped onto a double-wrapped swordbelt.

Wary eyes had peered out from under a hand-cast shadow, surveying the landscape before he continued any further. He was atop one of the larger dunes of the desert, giving him a vantage that he likely wouldn't regain for another thirty miles.

Nothing.

Not a single thing in sight for miles - just endless sand. By now he had been trekking for a while, covering about a hundred miles in all. A canteen was slung over his chest, secured by a heavy-leather strap - if there was one thing precious here, it was obviously water. He knew the Oasis' of the desert fairly well, and how to dig for water if the need was there - and many a times it was. He was still exhausted, though, despite the nourishment he managed in such an environment. The bridge of his nose was sunburnt - not to the point of peeling, but it was red. He hadn't the mind to purchase suitable protection for his head, so the hood of his cloak served him as best it could, atleast keeping the heat away slightly.

He stumbled down the dune - it was never an eloquent thing to watch someone dismount such a thing - one either rolled, or tripped with finesse..Especially if they were steep, as this one had been. Upon reaching the bottom, he spotted something in the distance that he definitely had not seen from the height he had previously - there had been a valley of some sorts, obscured from the height and only visible from ground level, where another figure was obvious. Who else would come out here? he thought to himself, slowly stepping forward to meet him. He already had a gloved hand settled on the hilt of his blade as he approached - though he was only being careful - he hadn't known if he was friendly or hostile yet.

Sepia sands mimicked a serpent’s belly motif, the ebbing dunes washing and dancing like the tide. In the monotony, all that failed to conform to the eddies and waves passed unnoticed, heat lines obscuring the horizon. Midday turned the glassy grit to fool’s gold, set to glittering and like pyrite, it did little good. Even what small beauty to be had was crushed under foot. The desert was a mistress so beguiling that fever and sweat broke over Obai’s half shrouded brow, saline pouring into that pallid jade eye.

Death was imminent amid the rolling knolls, Gods playing their pawns for fools and changing the board to suit their own tastes. There was no rule. Chaos reigned and in that single grain of knowledge a man could find his madness. Wandering the razor edge of sanity, the dunes worked to teeter and tip the rawboned form to and fro; a balancing act set to strip him of sagacity.

The beat of a sallow drum reverberated between his ears, keeping in time to his undulating steps. Damp and useless the goatskin flask pattered him against the thigh, egging him on like an old nag, spurring his dogged trudging. Time and again, brittle alabaster nails ghosted against the satin chamois. No matter the countless coaxings , it refused to comply Obai’s wishes and fill again. Pitch colored tongue hinted along his gullied lips, sparing what little moisture he hoarded to flatten the caked ochre that stained the skin. Even the flat stone, tucked lovingly against the fleshy floor of his maw, did nothing to quell his thirst.

Awkward ravings shuddered from his mug, waxy edges of his mouth twitching, willed upwards in a simper by nothing more than a wayfaring mind. Delicate talons clawed petulantly at the swarming crests of torrid air, casting unrealities in his path. A gem of lackluster emerald narrowed, peering farther into his illusion.
Incorporeal auroras shimmered against the tawny backdrop, obscuring the figure that loomed against the skyline.

“An illusion? That’s all life is, isn’t it… a series of illusions?”

Each word was annunciated carefully, tongue tasting each word as it dripped thickly from his lips in a low, breathy tone. Madness was a bell chime in his flavor.

Again, that pale eye skittered over the dark form, head tilted like an apt to learn pup. He preferred this illusion best out of all that he had seen, so well did it block the glare of the sun from his gaze. Obai chuckled, almost jubilantly.

Dreams, it seemed, stretched father than he gave credit. It was an idiosyncratic picture that had been painted before that lusterless jade gaze; heat wavering, weaving an impossible, albeit vivid tapestry. In but moments the world had peeled apart in layers. What had been desolate dunes and fiery grit now sprouted a crowd like mushrooms after a rain. It was an unlikely chapter in the water-stained tome of his existence and the sheer curiosity of it shone on his face.

Perhaps the insolent, sweltering waves had begun to tell some truth. It seemed his sauntering through the desert had bred something. If nothing more, the heavens had tossed another piece into the game.

A single cadaverous hand rose from its stagnant place at Obai’s side, long taloned fingers pointed towards the firmament, the sun catching stars along his wrists. Minute scales peppered pale knuckles, beading like sweat down hand and forearm. It was an unconscious gesture on Obai’s part, a flicker of nonchalance to aid the words that fell from his tongue.

“Damn hot.”

Nothing more elegant rippled from those garnet chapped lips. After all, what more could one say on the subject?

That pale, rawboned hand was offered, though no words, no name slipped from his half parted lips. Sweat slickened his palm, linen stained a shade darker from the perspiration about his arms. All the man did was stand, looking rather weedy and unimpressive with a yet unanswered gesture wavering between them.

It was interesting to him - this sun above. Beauty for some, but death and a bane to others. It was both a good and evil, depending on the person. The light it offered gave sight to those who would not be able to see in the darkness, and it's heat warmed those cold. But it also frightened off the dark some relied on, and the heat could very simply burn one to death. It was a careful balance..One that teetered towards the extreme in this desert.

He tensed a little. Despite the nourishment he's managed along the way, he was still on edge - if not a little delusional. Sweat dripped down his forehead as he stared at the man across from him, now within a few feet. Coming to a slow halt, his boots kicked up a bit of sand as he finished, piling up infront of him in two miniscule dunes. It was an odd meeting - one could think they were the most deviant of criminals, meeting to arrange a negotiation this deep in the desert - out of the prying eyes of law and order..But luckily that wasn't so. Sareus wouldn't think of it. He was a traveler, and he reckoned the man standing a few feet away was as well.

He sized him up. He was dehydrated..Badly. Malnourished - possibly hadn't eaten in a few days. He was still sweating though, which meant he wasn't in danger of dropping dead right there. He'd bet maybe a few hours, nothing more. He sighed, looking up, the hand still being offered to him. His hood fell back, revealing his face finally. He looked healthy, and fed, despite being so far in. Ruddy blonde hair fell down over his forehead, offering a slight bit of respite from the rays above. Squinting as he peers at the sky, he assesses the man's short words, before looking back to him, cracking a short smile of his own.

"Sure is."

He responded simply, tugging a half-full canteen of stiff leather from his side, and offering it in place of his hand.

He didn't feel it right to explain anything now. This man was in need, and he wouldn't make it to the closest oasis if he hadn't anything.

"Food?" He asked, slipping that same empty hand into his belt and tugging forth a bit of bread, wrapped in a now dry leaf, secured further with simple cording. He unwrapped it, and offered it, a glove-clad, sweaty hand holding it out to the man. His other hand was still rested on the hilt of his weapon though...He was out here quite a ways.

Jubilance shone in the points of his smile, teeth the delicate white of fishbone beaming at the man. With a pretense of wary compliance, Obai dipped his brow. Moments slipped and were lost to the ages as a single, pallid moss eye wantonly slithered over the canteen. Sweet as angel’s tears, condensation whispered fleetingly on its surface before the scorching breath of the wastes stole it away. Time seemed to hang and grow still, finding even a lapse in the fire the more Obai waited.

A quiet smile did extra work to split the gullied, rough edges and set a berry stain along the skin. Dehydration had dulled the bite. A whistling of breeze tossed up the peppered glass and filled the cracks before he found his tongue to speak.

“A saint, brother.”

Turbid spittle coated Obai’s rough palette, the viscid chalkiness catching halfway down his gullet. The coarse lump sagged into his belly and sat idly as he shifted like a spindly legged foal, milky pale eyes cast over the matte form of the man before him. Still, it was good measure to never look a gift horse in the mouth. Having given all the thanks the he could twist his belly into, taloned hand clasped about the canteen.

Each silver-tipped droplet that splashed back into the murky, gritty mire was worth more any glittering gem in the hot bask of the wastelands and it took considerable willpower not to fleece more than was his share to take. Eons passed in that accumulation of moments is took for the pale apparition to swill the sun warmed liquid, Adam’s apple working in a slow and deliberate bob beneath the sheet of silk. Obai drank until he felt his belly swell bogusly and only then did he relent, mourning the loss of even the grit he ingested along with it so honeyed was the feel of cool mist against his throat.

A single alabaster washed hand rose to the side of his jaw, unhitching the dark cloth that so obscured his features. He shed it like a second skin, slowly, peeling back the layers delicately. The top half fell away, shreds of cloth resting in those pallid fingers, twisted about his fingers like a dead serpent, hanging dully.

Whole and perfect, the eye that had been covered shone the same milky jade as its twin, squinting sharply from the effulgent glare sun gave across minute panes of unraveled glass. The side of his face, marred inhumanly was presented as the last bits of the vizar was husked away he was, and was not, laid bare before the bedraggled assemblage the desert had usurped. Just above a pencil thin and very human brow, a thick peppering of scales began, winding their way down across his eye, jumping the gap and leaving it mortal and natural the same as its brother. Mossy pale in pewters and slates they curved down the sharply angled jaw line like a fracture; a deep scar that marred a human perfection. Stipple and gleaming the line of lamina disappeared into the collar of his shirt, a whisper of could-be’s left to the imagination of his fellows. Thin lips pressed into a chaste smile, a bowing of dry, grime caked features.

With a gentle sort of reluctance, he offered back the container. Dainty clawed fingers shook like a newborn kitten, though he was more than careful to shed not a single drop into the tawny, rolling knolls.

“Brother, I have nothing to give that would be an equivalent exchange save a quick tongue.”

His throat now washed of the earth and grit produced a rolling timbre. However, there was an ethereal droning below that, something paused and shuttled along consonants.

A languid, hissing sigh spilled forth and he turned his attentions back to the man; gaze disheveled and unfocused as if he had only just pulled himself from the wanton arms of slumber. Obai jingled a small leather pouch that hung at his side gingerly, the rattle of sparse change evident within the muffling bladder.

“And a pocketful of coins hardly means a thing on these dunes…”

That tone lilted a bit, like a rough wooden chime in the rain. For more than an eon it seemed he regarded the other, twin jade orbs flittering over his new companion scrupulously.

“All I can give you is a name.”

Despite the stand of ceremony, he hardly seemed a genuine man. Blame it on the curve of his jaw or the spattered, spackled scales that burrowed into his milky flesh. In truth, he was baring his own soul, even sparing thanks or a pause to consider the dull fact that he shared the planet with another living soul.

“Obai.”

A whirlwind swept up near them - one of the many small dust tornadoes that formed in this wasteland. It sputtered for a moment, straining to survive, before the grit and sand that consisted it tumbled back to it's bed, the wind waining. He turned his head away only briefly, as not to allow too much of the hot glass to whip into his face. His eyes shut, and opened a moment later to the silence of the dunes. It was nearing later afternoon now - the sun slowly edging towards its resting place in the western mountains. A reddish glare began to overtake the skyline, perhaps only to give a more somber atmosphere to the wastes. It would be dark soon, which also meant it would be hunting time for the more fearsome predators out in the wastes, only waiting for the right moment to strike unsuspecticing, dehydrated, weary, starved travelers.

The man was grateful to him, but he simply shook his head.

"You're right, currency means nothing out here if you can't use it. But your name, that is something I can not lose."

He could only recieve the canteen back. A bit still lie at the bottom - and that was enough for him. He cracked a smile once more, and slung it back around his body, securing the cap a bit tighter, just in case the other man's strength wasn't fully back. It was still awkward, but simply by the man accepting the canteen, he decided he was no longer a threat. A beige-gloved hand slumped away from the hilt of his weapon, returning to hide behind the matching cloak covering his left side. It looked to be made of light-cloth..not cotton, but most likely linen, as it's texture was smooth, and obviously woven very tight - as not to allow any more grit or dust in. It was hemmed to the middle of his shin, where a simple design skirted the edge of it.

Two steel-blue eyes peered out in a squint at the other man - not so much to scrutinize, but rather because of the glaring sun located right behind his head. He didn't have such a good look at him, but he had tried to look at his eyes. He learned early that would be the best way to judge someone, but that wasn't working very well right now. Pushing aside all of that, he finally introduced himself. The smile he wore grew just a little further, though he was quick to settle back once he had prepared to speak. It was simple, and direct.

"Sareus. Do you have anywhere to stay tonight?"

He paused, waiting for a reaction.

"I'll be pitching camp soon."

He finished, and awaited a reply. His foot shifted a little underneath, and a slight stretch in his sleeves showed he was still a bit tense about some things..But was slowly edging towards some sense of being comfortable. He forced a smile this time, and waited patiently, folding his hands over his waist.

Chattering locusts chirped lazily from the scrubby patches of dune grass, singing in the evening. Beetles scuttled from their shifting tunnels, carapaces glittering like kohl gemstones in the dull vermillion glow that began at the climax of skyline. Fragments cooler, the impending twilight coaxed the desert into life. Just beneath the thirsty clamor of grit, a new song was being composed. The chorus of evening had begun.

Untutored, unforgiving ears, pointed and spackled with lichen hued scales missed the magic of evening. Instead he turned to Sareus, chin touching that rawboned shoulder in a diminutive shrug. The model motion set the tiny silver rings that lined his ears jostling together, chiming, and adding to the sweet dulcet the dusk begot.

A bland smile tugged playfully at the edge of his lips, one half twitching genuinely. Thin obsidian brows knitted, a taloned hand brushing the base of his skull skittishly. Nervous twitching caught the simper, half disguising ivory teeth. Trailing a flat pearlescent palm to cup his sleek jaw line, glassy tipped fingers drummed a tune against brass and pewter scales. It was an unconscious gesture, matched with a pallid, wandering gaze.

“Mm. Never figured that far. “

Garnet luster reflected in stained glass colors as that hand rose, wrist jittering. Miniscule scales caught and bowed the light momentarily, mirroring the careful reluctance that welled in his gaze. Uncertainty crawled across his skin like mites, itching and burrowing at his pale flesh. Never had such an offer been extended, liquid for his life on the dunes, and a deep skepticism knocked at his realities. Standing on the earth was hardly a give and take system as far as Obai was concerned. It was trial and error, and more take. Still, it was an appetizing opportunity to scathe the grip of death and have another along to recant the tale.

“You’re offering?”

Trying best to quell his curiosity, Obai busied himself burrowing taloned toes into the peppered, glassy grit. It served little more than diverting his attentions. Even a spare moment of calmness, something away from the calamity of companionship, were precious. It was not a judgment of the other but an inadequacy on his part. Social skills had not been ingrained along with his paranoia. People’s ‘goodness’ only starched so far.

Washed emerald eyes just surveyed him scrupulously for a few moments before he made a decision that brought his normalcy to a grinding halt.

“Alright.”

And that was that.

The tension between the two, despite the good terms they seemed to be on, was high. It was incredibly odd to find someone else out here, and have them not simply be a bandit, outlaw, or magical deviant bent on the destruction of all mankind. Very rarely were genuine travelers in these wastes - and even more rare were the chances of two meeting. As the night came alive, and the sun slipped beyond the horizon, a bright, clear moon stepped up as vanguard, bringing with it a sea of stars, numerous as the grains of sand under their feet.

Not a brush of wind struck the two men as they crossed for a few hundred metres, a spot already sized up while they had been speaking. A river had likely run underground, as a small line of vegetation sprouted from the sand in a narrow valley between craggy sandstone canyons. Protection from the elements and a source of some nourishment were prime, but the threat of predators also increased a bit.

He held the mans wrist to support him - just incase he hadn't the strength to make his way down into the canyon. He descended as he had with any other dune - short hops, skidding a little until he regained balance, before continuing. Eventually, the pair made it to the bottom, where the man finally released the others, a faint grin on his face.

"This should do."

He unslung the pack over his shoulder - it was a satchel, containing a few means of camping, and a bedroll wrapped around it. He immediately set to work on laying out the bedroll. He gathered a few dry vines from thorn bushes nearby, and set them up to form a small campfire.

Sweat still managed to drip from his brow as he worked, despite the drastic drop in temperature. Motioning idly to the bedroll, Sareus spoke plainly, kneeling down to start work on igniting the vines.

"You can sleep there. No offense, but you look like you need it more than I do."

He finished with a smile, his hands working with some diligence to work the sticks into an ember. Eventually he got somewhere, and a bit of tinder he had gathered from shaving some bark free of the vine ignited. He took this chance to blow into it, cradling it as a father would a small child. The ember grew until it sparked, a flame coming to fruition. Carefully, he stuck it under the gathered pile, which followed in suite soon enough.

With a fire started, predators would be more inclined to stray away from the pair, and it offered warmth required on nights that can get as cold as this. He shifted, scooting back from the fire and unclasping his cloak. He lay it flat, serving it as his seat and bed for the night.

He was finally settled down. The day was finally over - no more walking, no more exhaustion, just rest - and hopefully peace. Taking the chance as he gathered sticks, a small pile of fruits were gathered inbetween the two, piled up one ontop of the other in a small pyramid. They were mossy-blue in color, and somewhat small, though there was enough for a meal, and they were certainly edible. He took the chance to stretch his hand out, breaking one in half and offering the other to Obai. "Go ahead and eat." he paused, deciding to press a bit further. "Where are you from?" he finished, biting into the fruit that he held in his other hand. His weapon had been taken off - gathered into a wrap of his swordbelt near his cloak. He sat, waiting patiently for the answer. The fire cast a simple light on the situation - sending shadows dancing on the canyon walls flanking the both of them. It was almost serene.

Dire straits often chanced less compatible pairs, so the light the swollen belly of the moon cast upon them was a welcome one. Despite protocol and standing to serve politeness, Obai shuffled on long, coltish legs, uncertain. It was not the chances that were far or the sheer impossibility of the dice roll that had brought the two together that made him sway. It could have been any situation as far as his heat addled brain was concerned. Hardly a man, he was a thing marked by nervous ticks and careful sidelong glances. With a mind always stirring, synapses always picked at him, convincing that something was wrong; amiss.

Iridescent skin twitched as his new companion took his wrist, palm scorching against the cool of lichen hued scales. However, he did not pull from the grip; a tentative sort of meandering began. Doggedly, those bare steps matched his fellow’s. Sagging furrows marked his wake, shadows lengthening to fill the troughs. Nervousness flittered his pitch tongue over newly moistened lips. Granted, the trip was a short one and he soon found an odd relief as his hand was released.

Ample curiosity shone through pale algae eyes, head tilted animalistically. Sure enough Obai had scrounged his own skills and made fires before, indeed else he may have not lived to see another day. Still, leagues of interest netted his companion’s every action. Unceremoniously he hit the sand, backside sinking into callous, tawny grit.

The smile he offered would have seemed dense had it not been for the angled shine of ivory.

“Perhaps.”

A considerable amount of humor shone in his bitter, somewhat roughened tone. With a lift of alabaster palms, rising to the coming night, both his rawboned shoulder lifted and fell nonchalantly. Truth be told, he always looked half run through a ringer.

“I won’t be the one to turn down such a generous offer.”

Idle hands being the workshop of evil they always proved to be, Obai turned his attentions to the passing of a glassy, obsidian scorpion that chanced by. Mirrored white finer nails plucked the yield of the desert, poison laden sac pinched between nimble fingers. A haphazard smile seated itself on his lips, grinning child like back at Sareus.

“Boredom is a curse. I never stay in one place too long. I can’t remember the last city.”

Not even a hint of dourness was in that lilting, rumble of a voice, only plain recitation. He’d lost a good amount of brain cells to the sizzling heat, though it was doubtless that had little to do with the forgetfulness he endured. Obai was forgetful.

‘You, Brother? I doubt chance spreads itself so thin as the both of us have the same excuse.”

Devilish fingertips tickled the underside of the scorpion, prickle of legs digging into his bony digits. A gentle, hollow snap sounded as one of the legs was wrenched free, Obai’s free hand tossing it back over one shoulder with a deft flick. Again, his attentions turned back, returned and the rest of the scorpion joined its severed limb. Dipping his head in thanks, he took the offered fruit, though it was a long time in coming before he took a bite.

The scuttle of an ailing scorpion sounded a few feet behind him - to where Obai had tossed the creature. Blinking, he tugged his blade out of its sheath - turning around and aiming carefully before pinning it to the sand, the creature's tail stinging in vain against the steel-makeup of the blade that held it there. Carefully, a gloved hand came around from behind and grabbed hold of the poisonous tail. His breathing quickened enough, then, as he shifted his grip on his weapon, and sliced the tail off cleanly, and rather unceremoniously. The creature squirmed a little, trying to get away. It wasn't much bigger than the palm of his hand, and would easily fit in a mouth. Grabbing it with his spare hand that had just tossed away the tail, Sareus scooted back to the cloak, glancing over at the other man for a moment.

"Best use what you catch out here. They ain't too bad, really."

He says, just before plopping it in his mouth. A moment later he bit down, a crunch resounding from the inside of his mouth. He quickly followed up with a few more bites, before forcing it down - his adams apple lifting a bit, before falling again. A smile cracks onto his face a bit afterwards - obviously he was a bit more hungry than he had first let on.

It had gotten a good deal colder than the daylight - enough that he was shivering a little towards midnight. He edged a bit closer to the fire, and glanced back to Obai, shifting enough to face him while still keeping warm. Relaxing, he rested back on his elbows, propping himself up as if he were in a chair, with his boots rested in the sand and crossed over eachother at the ankles. His weapon lay close, still stuck in it's sheath and wrapped around with the swordbelt. He kept his gaze on the man for a few moments after the question was posed, before dropping a single nod.

"You'd be right in guessing that. I used to live on a family estate south of here, near the edge of the desert. It was overrun a few months back..And I just need some closure." he stops there, deciding it would be unwise to spill everything at once. He barely knew this man, and it was difficult to speak of it. He shifted a little, his eyes skipping across the horizon in search of a change of subject.

"What's your story? Usually travelers out here are prepared for the environment. I don't mean any offense, but..you aren't. So what's the deal?" he posed, head tilting just a little. His tone was curious, not so much subjective, or demanding.

A quizzical clatter of brass hoops marked the courteous bob of his head. Despite what banner than man chose to fly, he was still just as bedraggled as Obai. Knowing full well the sour tang of desert scuttlers, the man only offered that nod. Far be it from him to chastises a starving man for his diet. A few hours gone it had been Obai that had snapped eagerly at what meager spoils and tender, brittle flesh the desert spat into his path.

Ankles crossed, the bare of pallid feet blazed a hot orange against the licking flames. Warmth was precious when night fell upon the desert. Every so often his Achilles’ heel flared, jerking his foot impishly upward. A nervous tick and one of many the man was burdened with.

“Story?”

Obai murmured half under his breath, milky jade eyes skittering over his new companion. And interrogator.

“I could write volumes if I could only figure where to start. Other than my feet, perhaps it was curiosity the kicked me onto the sands.”

Sing song words dripped from his tongue like honey, tone turned inward. It wasn’t meant to sound as if he was standing on some odd sort of soapbox, though through his own addled brain, it was how it came across. He was hardly careful of his choice of words no matter the situation as he could not concentrate on his own emotion long enough to identify it.

Both pallid clawed hands came out before him, looking a begging gesture, something made insincere by the reptilian pantomime that marred his angled jaw.

“I wish I could offer more than that.”

It was a roundabout meandering that had thrust him onto the dunes in the first place and he could not tell the tale. Not without a considerable amount of himself in the mix. Obai, paranoid and cluttered as his heart was, loathed speaking about himself in any sense. Call it a fool’s errand. Nothing more. Anyone willing to boil their brains on the salt pans was more than a fool. Thus, it was a satisfying manner for the man to think in.

“I won’t ask for your story, since I can’t give you one in return. So let’s speak of the future, eh, Brother? Where are you headed?”

The future was far more palatable. The future could be molded, influenced. Changed.

It was beautiful at night. The stars shone brightly above, while the moon hung just off in the distance, shedding twilight over the rest of Arda. Sand drifted across the encampment, blown about by the steady, chill breeze through the canyon. The fire was needed - most certainly. His boots dug into the sand just a bit, trying to find their way to the still warm layers underneath - that hadn't quite sent off the last of their heat above. The question posed caused some serious thought to the young man. Where was he going?

A few pebbles tumbled down from the cliff-face of the canyon overhead, a few of them rolling towards the fire before finally coming to a stop in the sand. Glancing up, Sareus was able to make out the image of something - he wasn't quite sure what it was in the dark. He wasn't an elf, and the lighting wasn't near good enough for him to even try to get a good look at it. It was faintly humanoid in shape..Maybe around a metre and a half tall..And it was just standing there.

This obviously caused the man to become unnerved - though he was able to maintain some sense of composure. He didn't want to frighten his friend, and he had hoped that the garb covering him concealed his muscles tensing up. His eyes met back with him, and he put on a small smile, pushing to stand and fetching up his sword.
"I'm going to stand watch for tonight. How about you get some sleep?"
he responded. He was pretty sure that wasn't quite the answer saught, but he wasn't even sure himself how to respond otherwise. He wanted to go to the estate..but what would be there? Rotted corpses, and possibly a garrison of orc?

He shook the thoughts off and secured his swordbelt around his waist. Sauntering lazily, he made his way through the sand towards a narrow pass just north of the camp - still within earshot and eyeshot of the camp, and maybe only twenty five feet or so out. It was the only means into the camp rather than coming from above. Slumping a hand on the hilt of his blade, while the other covers a yawning mouth, he rested against the canyon wall, looking out towards the endless wastes - now a bit more quiet with the later hours. The sun would be up in about five, and he wouldn't get any sleep tonight. That seemed to be alright though - he needed to clear his head.

Paranoia had long ago taken to seed in his addled works. Rather than worrying that something lurked about each bend and in the indigo wash of shadow, he had merely taken to assuming that there was. No brittle edge pressed against his fragile psyche. Through dank jade windowpanes, there was always something silhouetted against the backdrop. Now was no exception.

A slick, white toothed smile spread beneath the cusp of his dark mask, a parody of emotion shining through that single washed green eye. His heat-baked brain quailed, wary of the untruths that the world spat upon him. The man uttered a high, tittering chuckle and moved a clothed forearm to his brow, peering into the bruised thickness of evening.

“I’ll still wait on your story with baited breath, brother.”

It was a hissing sneer that tone, though it was more than obvious by his complacent mask that more curiosity shone through than bitterness. Making and keeping companions was something that the variable school of hard knocks had not lectured the man on. Or perhaps he had never chosen to try the lesson from the start.

With languid calm, wide predatory eyes caressed the canyon’s lip. Ink stamped onto indigo, that presence wavered. Night had robbed Obai of clear, sharp edges but he was no fool. The man himself was a watcher and likewise knew when he was being surveyed. As unnerving as the scene smacked, he did nothing but quell that idle twitch that had begun at his heels. Talones turned gleaming silver in the moon light skittered over the diamond hard sheath that housed his katana. All in deep rosewood, the fine grained pattern gave him something to concentrate on. Something to hone his sights away from that looming figure.

Curiosity could only still Obai for so long, however, and he soon felt his eyes wavering towards his companion’s flight path. A low vantage gave little foresight, though against the black of the craggy canyon mouth he caught a view of him. It was nothing more than his parched min shying at shadows that spurred him to stand and wander coltishly in the other man’s footsteps.

“Omitting the truth is not a lie.”

Obai pressed, a teetering incline of his head up the slop giving life to what he meant. A liar knew a liar. Guile was Obai’s business, whether by choice or by circumstance. He could know nothing less.

The night was mostly quiet now. It was likely neither of the two would get any sort of sleep, what with Obai being determined to get an answer from him. He had liked the man, despite their short meeting, but it was strange of him to hear 'brother' coming from his lips. He never heard the words before. It had always been Captain, Comrade, Son, or Kid. He never had a brother growing up, so this had been awkward from the beginning, when he had first heard the words from the man.

He shifted his boots, grinding some sand up against his heel.

A few pebbles tumbled down from the canyon again. It had happened ongoing throughout the night. The man did what he could not to look up - not to give whatever was watching them the assumption that they knew he was there. He would act foolish, for now. He had been taught to keep an edge on an opponent at all times - even if it was deceit. He wasn't very good at lying, but he was -very- good at not paying attention.

Obai's footsteps caused him to shift again. He almost wished the man would get some sleep, as he likely needed it after being so worn out. The body needed rest, just as much as it needed water, or food. He was alright - he had a few chances to nap under the shade of a tree at an Oasis earlier the day they met. He would manage till morning, with some measurement of alertness. Obai, he was afraid, would not.

"What is truth..Brother?" he paused. That sounded foreign to him. He shook his head and continued. "As I've told you, I'm finding closure."

That was all he'd say on the matter. His hand shifted a little on the leather-grip surrounding the hilt of the longsword he bore, and he continued his gaze out into the mid-night wastes, starry hosts watching from above.

A few more pebbles tumbled down.

He repeated himself, then, glancing back to the bedroll. "You should get some sleep. I'll wake you in the morning."

Reluctance plain in those sallow jade eyes, Obai heaved his willowy shoulders. Hunched doubly amid the cast of shadow it made him seem minute, rangy patches of bone peaking against black satin. Being a patron living by his own odd rule, used to getting his own way by nothing more than mere circumstance, he took his exile earnestly. Obai was not a fish to swim upstream. Making waves in any sort of social setting often issued one a black mark, and this early in the running he decided it wise to be compliant.

Still the chord stuck a sour note. In the reaches of his fermented brain, tremulous whispers began. Specters and spooks oozed from the night, whispering sweet nothings into his ears as he loaped wolfishly back towards camp. Ideas sprouted and grew quick as snake vines, taking deep root in his thoughts. Being banished back to his bedroll hardly seemed a thing to preserve the species. A lie was a lie was a lie. Obai knew all too well what was dwelling on the brittle lip of the cliff side and he was unable to push the image away.

Silent as sin, Obai rambled about the ring of firelight, suppressing the near indomitable urge to cast an emerald peek over one cadaverous shoulder. It was more than maddening. Ideas buckled and kicked like a desert hare at the back of his skull, hammering away and making sleep impossible. But what was one more sleepless night?

Taloned digits sank and sighed against the chill grit, coaxing a sigh up Obai’s gullet. Still, faithfully as an old hunting spaniel, the man’s sallow gaze never left his companion. It was not a blind piety that rooted him so unshakably, but ire. The meeting was far too chance for Obai to throw his stock in with a stranger. The possibility for betrayal was too fresh against his brainpan.

No matter the goals elicited, it still granted an extra pair of eyes and ears to the cause.

Scraaaaaaaape.

It was not a sound Sareus was fond of.
It had been occuring for most of the night, and had been generally growing louder. He did not enjoy it at all, and for much of the night, he was tensed, with his weapon half-drawn and his eyes kept steady on the desert wastes outlying the small encampment. He had looked back to his companion several times throughout the night, releasing a sigh every time he witnessed the man looking back. He hadn't taken his advice.

The sun had begun to rise already. The day was starting anew, and light was finally starting to drench over the canyonlands. It was long, and somewhat uneventful, save for the incessant scraping happening along the canyon wall. That..creature had been there all night, and had not stopped. Releasing a yawn, and cupping his free hand over his mouth, Sareus glanced back and lifted his hand, the sun's light finally breaking loose over the eastern mountains and bursting glorious rays of sunlight over the canyon they rested in.

He had hoped that he would simply be able to get the camped packed up, and leave, before whatever had continued that continuous scraping stopped, and decided to try and snack on the pair. He slumped his hand back to his side and started off towards his companion, when perhaps the worst sound possible that night was heard. Or rather, Not heard.

The scraping halted.

And so did Sareus.

His hand slid the longsword free of it's sheath, the steady sound of steel being drawn being the only echo throughout the small canyon. Steadily, he glanced up, before..

smash. The creature that had been playing with them most of the night slammed down infront of Sareus, blocking his path to Obai and sending a spray of sand and grit up into the air, showering both men in it. Sareus stumbled back, skidding to a halt and readying his weapon. He squinted his eyes at the creature, trying to make it out as the dust settled. His efforts would come to fruition. The creature was something he had hoped it would not be.

It was a mature antlion. Perhaps twenty feet long, and ten feet high, the beast roughly weighed around two thousand pounds. Razor sharp claws finished off each of the six legs of the beast, while mandibles dripped a toxic poison that would certainly kill either of the two should they be injected with it. His breathing increased, and he stepped back a little, putting a bit of distance between the two. The creatures back was to Obai, giving him some chance to get away.

As Sareus leveled his blade, he beckoned his companion to safety, glancing off to a shallow cleft in the rock that would serve to keep him from being injured.

And surely, as he beckoned, one of the creature's front legs tore into his chest, smashing him soundly and sending him flailing into one of the rock walls nearby. Gasping, he slumped into the sand, slowly forcing himself up as the beast closed in on him. Another leg was raised to try and crush the young man, but it was met with the steel of a blade. The end of the antlion's leg had been sorely chopped, sending a spray of green-yellow blood onto the canyon walls. Taking the advantage as a shriek sounded forth, Sareus tried to put more ground between Obai and the creature, drawing him out towards the small pass he had guarded that night.

Tempered steel brushed lovingly against the rosewood scabbard, the blade wrenching free of its shell in a deft sweep of Obai’s rawboned arm. Near half a moment had been lost in the silvered course of action even though lazy coltish legs sprang to action with little hesitation. Finally after a nerve wracking night of spring loaded nerves, the man had gained some outlet. Balanced upon spring formed toes, Obai lurched forward in a spray of tawny grit. The option to retreat was one that had never crossed the man’s muddled mind. Not from courage or the heady lust for battle but something far more simple than that. It was a reaction. Nothing more, nothing less.

Grotesque maw dripped viscous threads of spittle, the antlion crying out in agony and outrage. The blow that Sareus had landed had been a true strike, yet it would take far more than that to drag the beast to a standstill. Claws tore long furrows into the soft dunes, kicking up a din and making Obai squint to avoid being blinded. Fish bone white teeth gritted, points meshing dangerously as he raised the folded steel katana, readying himself for a strike. Sareus was annexing the monster, as well as himself, inside the small canyon. If they pressed too far, there was little hope of escape for any of them, except perhaps for the antlion as its formidable claws would easily be able to scamper up the rock face.

Surprise was luckily on Obai’s side as he ducked beneath the thrashing beast’s hind limbs. The razor point of the katana struck home where he aimed it. A sickening pop sounded as the steel edged underneath the thick carapace that line the thing’s belly and Obai drug the blade along for a few precious inches before the beast managed to realize it had been wounded. A hot gush of fluids was the man’s reward as he wrenched the blade free and careened backwards. One of the antlion’s spindly barbed legs had lashed out, catching him against the ankles. He spilled unceremoniously to the sand, cart wheeling heavily into the glassy grit. It took some amount of care to avoid impaling himself on that long blade.

A fierce growl sounded from deep in his gullet and he forced himself up on his palms, ready to scatter if the beast turned its attentions back to him. Obai righted himself and stood and promptly hit the sand again. Teeth ground noisily against themselves and he only just managed to keep a rancorous cry from escaping him. His ankle was beginning to turn a sickly indigo hue just beneath his translucent flesh. Perfect.

Hardly one to let a sprain keep him down, the man forced himself back to a stand, grasping the twine braided hilt of his katana.

“Round him!”

Obai cried out, letting the pain flower in his tone, letting his pain carry it farther than his normal sultry tone would have allowed. Raising the spine of his sword, a silver stream of light flittered across it. A flare from catching the light. At least it served to gain his companion’s attention. Hopefully.

“Drive him to me!”

Two against one was still fairly good odds if they served together. Sareus seemed to like heroics, in Obai’s opinion. Taking on a sizeable opponent such as this one was no easy task; neigh impossible alone. Perhaps together they could pull of an implausible feat.

Heroics was not on the mans mind at this time. Flooded with adrenaline, as well as concern for what he thought to be a wounded, dehydrated man were the only things driving him. If any sense of highness would come to him, it would take the glancing thought of his past to humble him. He was simply trying to defend his friend.

A scatter of dust and grit flung into the air as the antlion refocused it's attacks. It was wounded, but by no means out of the fight. He had done his best to draw attention away from the man, and the serene shout of "Drive Him!" was all he heard through throbbing ears. The heat, mixed with adrenaline, panic, fear, and a body tensed completely managed to exhaust a man quickly, and cause just a bit of impaired judgement. He was never one for ranching, and an antlion just didn't seem the type to willingly listen to him.

So he bore his blade. Regripping the leather hilt, he flexed his right hand once, knuckles bone-white underneath the gloves he wore. His breathing was heavy, but quick. If he hadn't a ribcage and skin, his heart may have burst from his chest for pounding so hard. Cold steel shone against the morning sun, glinting in the only sense of beauty this battle could bear. His vest was torn - a line of red took the place where a stretch of padded armor had been. Taking in a few more breaths, he dashed forward, using what agility he could muster to leap overtop of a sweep, as Obai had succumbed to earlier. Landing back in the sand, he kicked off again.

He raised his blade high, coming in almost clear at the creatures face. Mandibles ripped towards him - and nearly caught him, toxic poison still dripping from it's disturbing maw. He swayed back - nearly losing his balance in the effort. His right foot slid back in time to catch him though, and as the creature pulled it's head back for another strike, Sareus had already acted. A heavy slash from the mans longsword came across the creature, slamming into it's left mandible, and cracking very soundly. Despite the momentum, the creature's shell was hard. Sareus pulled the blade back, taking a half-second to assess the damage inflicted. The mandible was broken, but only cracked about half way. Determined, he moved to strike again, using the weapon's hilt - and the momentum of his feet, to come forward and strike with the dull end of the blade, cracking the mandible even further and finally breaking it.

It struck the ground, kicking up a bit of sand in the process. Greenish yellow fluid followed after, coating the ground in a bath of toxins. Sareus retreated, though it didn't take long for the creature to ignore it's pain and retaliate. A leg struck forward, slicing across Sareus' shoulder and ripping clean through the armor he wore. A shout sounded forth from the mans throat, and blood spattered out onto the ground. Sareus stumbled for a moment, before dropping his weapon and collapsing to the ground, gripping his shoulder. The wound was deep, and threatened to kill him should he lose enough blood.

He didn't succeed very well in driving the creature back towards Obai, which he wasn't too thrilled about. The Antlion, driven mad by the wounds it suffered, began to flail indiscriminately, smashing a heavy leg into the canyon walls, and sending a few loose boulders tumbling down into the area around them. The creature may very well bury them all here today. Sareus set to binding his own wound though, taking the small break in battle to try and stay alive.

Obai’s ankle boasted a pulse of its very own, bone grumbling and grinding against torn cartilage as he teetered like a one legged stork. Teeth gritted savagely, only half to try and bolster his own attacks. The man’s pride had been injured just as badly as his favored leg and it shone in his milky pale gaze. Whether or not the damage was too great for the joint to hold his bulk, Obai set it down against the shifting sands.

The metallic salt of blood filled his nostrils and it snapped his head to the side, curtain of onyx shielding his face for a brief instant, sweat plastering it to his forehead. Ruby rivulets were sucked in greedily by the dunes, churning the glassy grit into ochre paste. The sight stilled him for half a moment, Sarues hastily patching his gouged chest as best he could. Ticks were lost in the heat of battle and it was a long breath before Obai composed himself.

Determination set his jaw, silver flecks and scales reflecting the morning heat. A slightly wavering hand raised the tip of his katana from the tawny dunes, damp palm hastily gripping the twined handle. Thunder rumbled from his throat, tearing a growl to join the antlion’s ravaged cries. The monster jerked and rubbed along the canyon wall, hefting loose great hunks of limestone in its fervor and seemed more than ready to bring the side of the mesa about them. Pebbles and scalpel sharp fragments snapped smartly across Obai’s chest as he moved forward.

His jerking gallop was little more than a shuffle, one foot set and the other dragged pitifully behind. Hardly graceful, though it got the job done. In its agonizing dance, the antlion had forgotten his presence. A deft hefting brought the tempered edge of the katana to the beasts neck, both arms raised well above his head. A tiny chink lay all but unseen near the base of the animal’s skull, a tiny crack where the neck and shoulders meshed together. It was there that Obai had aimed his strike.

It fell true.

Cartilage bowed and gave under the razor pin, snapping inward with a sickening pop. The antlion bellowed its outrage, skittering up curtains of sand as it attempted to strike back. Rather than pulling the blade free for another attack, Obai bunched what little muscle he still owned and pressed harder inward. It at least served to keep the beast at a distance, as he could no longer flee.

And it worked…for a moment.

The beast clamored at the sword tip, long, spindle legs scraping at the steel splinter fiercely. Nothing served to displace the weapon, so buried it was in the beast’s carapace. Putrid yellow pus seeped over the sand, pouring from the wound in an acrid smelling waterfall. Perhaps it would be a fatal wound after all.

With a deafening howl, the antlion’s frantic arm slithered down the edge of the blade, finally set on its true target. Obai. A obsidian talon slammed against his shoulder blade, slicing through the black silk garment. The man felt it slide harmlessly against a patch of mossy grey scales, thinking well of his good fortune as a smile spread across his lips jauntily. It seemed that he had celebrated victory too soon. As the icy black nail slammed in between his collar bone and shoulder, the smile was ripped from his face. A hot spray of crimson welled and soaked the cloth, spattering the sand below him.

Still the creature howled and flailed, inflicting more damage on accident rather than intention. By sheer weight and size, its death throes continued to tear into Obai. The claw wrenched free, only to stick in yet again, a few inches to the left. Salt welled in the corner of his eyes and he cried out, the inhuman sound reverberating against the canyon walls, the echo continuing long after the sound had died.

With all the force the man still possessed, Obai pulled the blade free and sank it in again. And again. And again. Clammy yellow fluids spilled against his pallid skin, stinging as the toxins burned his flesh. Still, he did not stop. Only when he felt the assault on his body begin to cease did he pull back himself. Everything was hazed in reds and dove grays, his breathing the only sound he could still hear. Half an inch from death himself, Obai sank into the sand, ignoring the pain that shivered through his ankle.

He managed nothing more than a smile before his world disappeared into a myriad of tecnicolor stars, unconsciousness finally claiming him.

"Obai, No!"

His feet had never carried him as swiftly as they did to his companions side. The Antlion was nearby, twitching from the grievous wound it sustained at the hands of it's now fallen killer. Sand kicked up as he closed the distance, tossing his weapon aside and skidding to a halt on his knees, immediately sliding his hand in underneath of Obai's head. Tilting it up just a little, he assessed his wounds.

If his stomach hadn't been as strong as it was, he would have vomited on the spot. Bone was sticking out from Obai's collar, a compound split sending sharp shards of cotton-white bone out through the skin. Blood was everywhere, and it wasn't long before Sareus' hands were covered in it - as well as most of his clothing. The other wounds were just as serious - slashes and gores where the antlion's dangerously sharp claws penetrated skin.

He hadn't a clue what to do. His hands, now shaking, seemed incapable of properly bandaging all of the wounds - and he was bleeding severely. A pool had already formed under his body, and the paleness of his skin portrayed death. Swallowing hard, the man slowly slipped his hand out from under his head and tore up a bit of his cloak, hands still shaking severely. He did his best to bind the wounds, and apply pressure to the worst of them. It took several minutes before they were secure - and most of them were already soaked in the blood of the wearer.

Sareus' breathing was ragged. His own wounds had lost the effect of pain they held over him as adrenaline soared in his body - concern rampant over the person he failed to protect. After securing his wounds, he did his best to clean up the toxins that had scoured his chest area. There wasn't much else he could do - he had little water, and so he cleaned him up as best he could. It was about mid-day, and to keep Obai in the heat would surely finish him for good. With a struggle, he carefully drug him through the sand into the shadow of the canyon wall, where the temperature was around fifteen degree's cooler. Stopping there, he made sure he had what provisions he required. He was still unconsious - but atleast the bleeding had stopped. He had never been trained in medicine.

His nerves were shot, if there were any left at all. He slumped against the wall of the canyon, his weapon still laying out in the sand where he had tossed it in running. The corpse of the antlion lay nearby as well, the twitching finally halted. He released a slow, nervous sigh, and glanced down to Obai again. Ghosts had been more colorful than this mans pale face, and fear of the man dying on him would soon reach his thoughts. He shook his head, and turned attention back to his own wound. He did all that he could.

Ambrosial unconsciousness. The shatter of ivory shards through his tender flesh, the inhibited flow of his life blood tickling and trickling along pale scales; all of it was tangible. Tangible but secondary. Pinpricks of agony slithered along his spine although he chose to ignore the fact, dwelling only upon the sweetly agreeable, lukewarm beating of his heart. Dissociative and unlinked to the land of the living, Obai reveled in the quiet. It was almost easy, dying, had it not been for the buffeting calls and callous hands roughing over his skin and stemming the flow of his release.

Something snapped inside, brought him back to consciousness. Back to life. Hours had passed under the blistering flash of the desert, though to Obai’s muddled reality only moments had elapsed. Long before his eyes opened, before he managed to speak stickily, he realized something dire. He hurt. The dull ache he had experienced in the darkness of his own adrenaline laced sleep was nothing, nothing compared to this. Suddenly his bones were made of hot glass, skin nothing but a hiss of wet paper to cover them, dampness that was all to keep his hide from bursting into flame. Broken from the even trail of breaths that had helped him survive the hours, he took a deep lungful of air, immediately regretting the choice. His chest heaved, setting his collar bone to grinding against its shattered brother.

Salt water welled in the corner of wide, pallid eyes and he blinked to send a painful wash of tears across his cheek. Blindly he let his hands scoop them away, leaving hot lines of sandy grit to replace them. Another full minute passed before he chanced facing the world again. Agonizingly slowly, Obai opened his eyes, blinking into the red blare of evening. Just how long had he been knocking at death’s door?

“Sareus..?”

The single word caused his teeth to clatter noisily together, tongue sticking stubbornly to the roof of his mouth. Salty and metallic, he tasted blood caking the roof of his mouth. Finger nails picked at the dried blood along his septum, rubbing his nose idly. It hurt but he could move. Rest had dulled the pain in his ankle, though he did not trust his body enough to try and stand. Instead he used his unwounded side to prop himself up as best he could. Three times he hit the sand unceremoniously, too weak and pained to manage. Triumph shone through dirty panes of church glass and he smiled to himself.

Sleep had softened the edges of his world to near nothing, even the close canyon wall nothing but a sandy ochre blur. The scent of death hung low about the tight space and he hoped that it was the decaying corpse of the antlion and not of himself or his new found companion.

Dust spattered into the air as Sareus scrambled over to Obai, suprise and delight wrapped up into a single emotion. It's not long before Sareus gets to his side, the heat causing most of his face to have a mild sunburn, despite the shade. Peering over him, he examines his wounds again, making sure he actually heard him, and it wasn't just his mind playing tricks on him.

"..Obai? Can you hear me?" he questions, peering at the wounded's pupils. They're certainly open, but glazed over. His gaze flicks up briefly to the decaying antlion nearby - he must have been asleep for hours, as the stench has managed to overcome most of the canyon area, and the young man finally realizes it. Sighing, he glances upwards, buzzards circling in patient silence until those alive would either perish as well or clear the area so they can feast on the dead.

An unsteady breath left the mouth of the man, dehydration starting to take it's effects. He hadn't paid attention to his body, and cracked lips showed it. The gash across his chest looks to have dried over, leaving a nasty dark red scar behind. He didn't pay it much attention though, cringing as he examined his companions collar. "Don't move..You broke something between your neck and shoulder." Despite his lack of medical knowledge, it was plain to see the snapped collar bone, still exposed a little despite the rough bandaging.

He sighed, glancing upwards a moment, before looking back down at his friend. "What should I do? How can I help?"
Sadly, he hadn't been the pulled together leader type he came across as in the beginning. He was still young, and hadn't known all the answers. He looked confused, keeping his gaze on the wounded man laying before him. He released a nervous sigh, expecting some kind of response to show him what it is he should do. He simply didn't know.

“Mmhm.”

Gruff and grainy, the nod of affirmation was all that noted the groan as anything more than a ripple of pain. Shifting his palm, flat and scooping into the buff dunes, Obai repositioned himself delicately, craning his neck at an impossible angle to get a better view of the wound he’d suffered.

Ivory and ash spears had torn through his pallid skin at jagged, splintered angles. Faintly pink flesh stuck to the rough edges of the tear, denoting that infection was sure to set in. Blood flow had been stemmed, sure enough, though the discoloration was cause for concern. Despite the attempt at bandaging sand stuck to the scabbing wound, adding emphasis to the raised meat. Swallowing a bolus, Obai cast his gaze upwards at Sareus. It took all he was worth not to retch the meager contents of his stomach back onto the rolling landscape. Sending a silent prayer, he thanked the gods that the botflies hadn’t laid their brood in the open slit while he dozed.

Soft, even breathing was all that split the silence. What could Sareus do to help? Both wounded and without any means of survival the prospect was grim at best. Even the carcass of the monstrosity they had slain was too far gone to be of any use. Left to ripen and bloat in the wretched sun, anything salvageable for moisture or a meal was ruined. The droning of insects was deafening, tiny jaws humming and singing as they set into the body. Obai flinched.

“Help me up. Slowly. If I can stand, I can walk.”

Honestly, Obai was not so sure that was true, what with the muscles torn in his heel and ankle, but it was worth the shot. There was no more that they could do to wrap the wound, nothing that could be set. Even if he or Sareus reset the shattered collar bone, the splintered bits of bone were sure to cause an infection.

“We both need a healer. Or we’re both going to meet Fate head on, Brother.”

Sourly, his pallid jade eyes flickered towards the heavens, though not to pray. He gazed balefully at the ring of buzzards that had begun circling, the more daring of the pack swooping down and hefting great hunks of flesh from the carcass of the antlion before they cartwheeled back into the cooling evening air.

At least travel would prove slightly more comfortable without sol scorching the hide from their backs. If nothing more, they could fall to insurmountable thirst by moonlight. Far more a romantic prospect. Flinching at the thought, Obai furrowed his brow, trying to remember. There were many species of cacti that bloomed in the shade of the canyon walls. Some were dry and brittle, though experience had taught him others were filled with cooling pulp. Pursing his lips, he nodded to a tiny strand of three inch tall, fleshy growths.

“That could help. Or cause the desert madness.” A short, prickling smile crossed his face as he squinted up at Sareus, garnet flecks peppering his chin. “Why not place all the cards on the table and finish the gambling, mm?”