Open Chronicles A Welcome Scent of Death

[Sereth]

Amol-Kalit
Oakwood Trading Co. caravan
Early evening

The sun overhead was a brutal and cruel mistress in Amol-Kalit. It vacillated between methods of inflicting injurious harm which each rising and setting; a purposeful heat or a negligent cold, either could kill. Seretha missed it every time she traveled to the Falwood or Aberresai. Amol-Kalit was an exercise routine, making you stronger with every active day. She felt strong here not just from her own training but because so many others felt weak. Sometimes she allowed herself these little confidences.

Specifically, though, she took some secret pleasure in the fact that this caravan was from Vel Anir and despite the Anirian insistence in some kind of divine superiority of humankind they specifically sought Abtati escorts when delving into the desert for the hidden wealth there waiting to be harnessed. They did call her "sand elf," though, which she wouldn't normally have minded - she was an elf, and her birthplace was proudly in the sands, after all - except that she knew their meaning behind it. They believed that she looked up at the walls of Vel Anir and coveted what they had.

The walls of Vel Anir made them weak. One day that would be bad for them, worse than the revolution had been. However, she didn't fault them their fear and paranoia. It made her a lot of money.

Okay, perhaps she did covet some of what they had. Mostly their coin and their excess of abandoned remains.

Anirians favored horses and wagons, and seemed to take some exception to camels as being something that the Abtati specifically relied on. That meant they were often below the human merchants, no matter how many trips into the desert they took. Certainly horses were viable, but there was a reason that her people used them for battle and not manual labor.

"We should turn north for the waystation there," she called out, her voice even and unemotional. Human men liked that in their employees. "It's only an hour out of the way."

The caravan master ignored her. He could certainly hear her - she had long since learned to tell the difference between those who were hard of hearing and those who were simply hard of mutual respecting - but made no effort to acknowledge.

"Hup," she told her horse, urging it faster to get nearer to him. When she arrived at his side, she repeated herself. "Turning north for an hour gets us to a good waystation. We're going to need it."

He looked at her, glanced down at her chest and with his eyes lingering there said, "No, we're making good time and aren't to stray off-plan."

"Understood, however we're going to need a rest sooner rather than later. We've pushed too hard."

The master spurred his horse faster as though to get away from her. He waved his hand and responded, "If you need to take a break, that's your problem. You may stop whenever you'd like, though. The time it takes for you to return to your post'll be docked from your pay."

In her mind, Seretha drew out one of her short throwing spears and thrust it through his right lung to inflict maximum harm and pain and chance of a torturous journey into unlife with minimal actual damage to his overall frame. She cut his heart out and inscribed on his breastbone commands to crawl his way back to Vel Anir on his hands and knees such that when he arrived he would be such a bloody and ragged mess that the authorities there wouldn't have even checked for signs of necromancy and would have thrown him into a pauper's grave trench as an unrecognizable indigent wanderer.

Seretha smiled and said, "No need, captain. I just worry too much."

He grunted and steered his horse to the other side of the caravan. She kept her eyes locked on him, thinking of all of the uses she might have had for him. When he slowed back down to match pace with the wagons, she likewise dropped back and found the livestock wagon. It was driverless, the horse well-trained to follow the wagon in front of it. She dismounted beside the horse, noting that her own would end up too tired to fight with the current plan, and patted the horse's neck and leaned over to it. "Enjoy your time while you can, horse. You have only until the morning, I think. I did what I could."

On the plus side, if she prepared well tonight then she'd be ready to raise a good tool to complete the journey with no one being the wiser. It just needed the right timing.

 

[An-her Amentotankhatra]

A rivulet of smoke rises from a small cooking brazier, shielded from the sun's rays by a sturdy tall-tent. Painted on all six sides with a desert scene, with an illuminated peacock feather in the middle of each, it was clearly the tent of a tradesman. The brazier warms a small array of mealstuffs and thick, sweet coffee as Salih stows his pack and dresses down from his traveller's-wear into his resting linens, and speaks a prayer.

"Sal-iilum yawmina siegħa, saeuta, nitqat, 'aħal-min-familati salegħi u 'il-kowaeazmutagħha, u għawasiħatay, eadluizzja tagħha." He chants, head pitched upwards, as he unrolls his sitting rug.

The unforgiving desert rarely bothered Salih. It was home. He could cross many miles under the burning sun, and see life in everything around him, unlike most Non-Maraa-Abtati, or non-Maraanian, tradesmen. Men who dwelt within cities, Men who dwelt across prairies and forests. Those with eyes for the robin and the deer. Those without eyes for the lizard, the vulture, the sandcat. He was made and blessed for the desert. His skin was accustomed to blowing sand, his thick eyelashes protective. His camelid feet wide, to float upon the sand. His body tall and lean, save for a comfortably soft padding of fat around his middle, to carry with him extra nutrients and moisture in times of thirst or hunger.

"Hi mitad-deżahra' taefri qalbi."

He claps his hands once, with a flourish, at the end of the prayer, and then settles upon the rug criss-cross to prepare a dish. Heavily spiced lentils, boiled wheat flour, stewed quince and figs. He pours himself thick coffee into a rose-painted cup, ornately figured, and then drizzles a bit in the bottom of a teal-and-brown cup with a fond, respectful swirl.

"Be well, friend."

Many thoughts pass his mind as he savours his meal, long minutes of taste, thorough mulling. Thoughts of his intent to make the next little village before midday tomorrow. What he will do once he arrives. If there is anyone he may wish to visit from the last occasion he visited. He almost doesn't notice the shimmering shadows of travellers coming over the horizon, until they're close enough for him to squint, lightly, and see that they aren't a mere mirage. It's then that he places his bowl down in the warm sand, half-empty, and waits. Waits for their approach.

Ah, a wagon train. Why are they...

He stands casually and steps over to the tall pole on which his family's banner is hung- it too a desert scene with an illuminated peacock feather -to pull it from the sand, and he moves to stand several strides away from his tent to greet...

Anirians. That is why.

He surveys them closely, to suss out their purpose in crossing the desert during the hottest part of the day. One of the many reasons he doesn't enjoy being around Anirians. They were foolish and deadly, even to their own, and showed it best to the sand in their travel methods.

"Met well." he announces, voice calm, civil, but not warm. He would point them on their way, unless there was a good reason to do otherwise.

---

Seretha ibnat Rezhe
#cfa944

 

[Seretha ibnat Rezhe]

Perhaps it was due to boredom, or perhaps her lack of care for the master of this particular caravan, but Seretha hadn't noticed anyone around other than the traders and their meager guard. So, when she heard a voice call out, her spine bolted straight and she suddenly became hyper-aware of her surroundings. Each wagon quickly accounted for, each guard noted, each merchant's location if they were unprotected.

"Met well," the voice said with little emotion behind it as far as Seretha could tell - though, she never was very good at gauging that outside of a negotiation to begin with.

She quickly mounted her horse and made her way over to the stranger, waving away the other guards. The mercenaries seemed wary but also had no issue letting her risk her life on her own. She eased her horse near the man, spear in hand but shield still hanging from the saddle.

Her own voice deprived of as much feeling as she could make it, she responded, "Well met, indeed."

Glancing around theatrically, she gestured to the general emptiness of their surroundings. "You're alone here?"

---

An-her Amentotankhatra

 

[Salak]

Travelling across the desert was a game of patience in Salak's humble opinion. You had to do what the land told you. Stop where there was water, find shelter in sandstorms and keep your strength for the best hours of travel. In this place only a fool thought they controlled the pace of a journey.

Thankfully of the many virtues he lacked patience was not one of them. He had joined the caravan in silence, paying his way to travel under guise of pilgrimage. His simple blue robe with hood and snake head cane betrayed nothing of his status as a Dreadlord, which was exactly how he preferred it. With an exaggerated lack of grace he climbed from the wagon he was travelling in and under his hood thanked himself for having the sense to prepare well for the journey. His clothing was airy enough to breathe but when pulled tight gave layers valuable for the cold nights.
When his eyes adjusted to the light he saw the wagon-master waddling off his horse and did not envy the creature. He saw how the man spurred them on earlier and wondered how the desert would take him if he was to suddenly find himself alone out here. Even with provisions and two horses such a man would ride both to death in two days then die himself on the third.

"Spare me oh ye Powers from the will of fools with more money than good sense!"

He did not pray but he was not afraid to ask the mercy of any who may be listening. The smell of spiced food hit him and his green eyes searched for the source as the others took what rest they could find. Then he saw them and his mind spun like a pinwheel in a gale.

*Tracker, Pathfinder, Guide, Woman, Elf, Calm, Confident, Armed, Bones, Ornate? No, Ceremonial? Possibly, Wary. Meeting, Man, Camiled, Trader, Banner, House? Company? No Name, House, Yes. Alone? Armed. Non-hostile.*

It was hard to do in the heat but the habits of a lifetime die hard and better to be careful with a sore head than caught by a knife in the dark.
The two were talking, making introductions no doubt. Simple, honest living. His lifestyle almost makes him forget about it sometimes. Cane in hand (it's use limited on the soft sand) he does his best to walk with as little a limp as possible as he makes his way over to them, nice and slowly. To hear their words before they stop talking.
He smiled to himself a bit at his own deliberate pace, the habit of a lifetime.