- Messages
- 157
- Character Biography
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The sun above bakes the land below
Find your own feet steady, have skin of stone
Not sand nor sword can weather your soul
Heed the call of the Trees, those Seven tall
The song upon his lips undoubtedly meant nothing to anyone but the man who sang it with dry lips and a brow soaked in sweat. In a time long past it was a favorite of his people, a declaration of the warrior's way, and a reminder of what he and so many others like him had fought, sweat, and bled for. Even as he sang, bits of sand flew into his mouth, kicked up by the horses dashing across the dry savannah that carried his small single-seat cart across inhospitable lengths of barren heat.
It was enough to make a man crumble in misery, but to Len Dy't B-taa this dry heat was the embrace of his home. Indeed, a smile split upon his lips even as the sunbeams bore against his bronzed skin. So many times he'd made this trip, sang this very same song as he returned from triumph to bear the news of another grand victory to his people. In his mind he could hear them: the cheers and adoration of the Aberrants, the deafening horns of the Vast Nazca sounding in announcement of his return.
No man, woman, or child shall beg
In the city of brass, that walks upon legs
The call of the horns, it stirs us to shout
'Live Long!' to the Aberrants, us few and devout
Alas, no matter how many times he closed his eyes tight and opened them once more, there was no kingdom to greet him this time. Where it should have been was nothing but arid and empty air, with rolling dunes across the droughted ground beneath it. The place Len had called his own, the Aberrant Kingdom, was long dead and forgotten. Len himself was the only remaining fragment of a once great and powerful civilization, brought back from the hands of death by the greed and evil of this current time.
He'd been ripped from his fate, a death he'd accepted with open arms, and forced back into life as a stranger to the entire world. In time, some distant descendants of the Savannah who had formed an Empire larger and grander than the Kingdom he'd once known accepted him into the fold and given him a new home. Ragash was a place that he had grown fond of, and working for Medja and Ahti had been a most welcome distraction from the turmoil he felt about his resurrection.
But it was a distraction, and nothing more.
B-taa's heart still burned for his true home, and he felt it in his bones that here, amongst the dunes and the searing sun, he would find some clue, some remnant of his people. Though generations had passed, the idea that nothing would be left behind was unfathomable to him. Pulling his cart to a halt , he brings the waterskin at his hip up to his mouth, washing the sand from his lips and tongue and nourishing his dry throat.
There was a lot of ground to cover, and this Savannah was far from the safest of places. Inhospitable though it was, that didn't mean it was abandoned. Behind each hill could lie a killer in waiting, seeking to take his new life the same as his first.
Find your own feet steady, have skin of stone
Not sand nor sword can weather your soul
Heed the call of the Trees, those Seven tall
The song upon his lips undoubtedly meant nothing to anyone but the man who sang it with dry lips and a brow soaked in sweat. In a time long past it was a favorite of his people, a declaration of the warrior's way, and a reminder of what he and so many others like him had fought, sweat, and bled for. Even as he sang, bits of sand flew into his mouth, kicked up by the horses dashing across the dry savannah that carried his small single-seat cart across inhospitable lengths of barren heat.
It was enough to make a man crumble in misery, but to Len Dy't B-taa this dry heat was the embrace of his home. Indeed, a smile split upon his lips even as the sunbeams bore against his bronzed skin. So many times he'd made this trip, sang this very same song as he returned from triumph to bear the news of another grand victory to his people. In his mind he could hear them: the cheers and adoration of the Aberrants, the deafening horns of the Vast Nazca sounding in announcement of his return.
No man, woman, or child shall beg
In the city of brass, that walks upon legs
The call of the horns, it stirs us to shout
'Live Long!' to the Aberrants, us few and devout
Alas, no matter how many times he closed his eyes tight and opened them once more, there was no kingdom to greet him this time. Where it should have been was nothing but arid and empty air, with rolling dunes across the droughted ground beneath it. The place Len had called his own, the Aberrant Kingdom, was long dead and forgotten. Len himself was the only remaining fragment of a once great and powerful civilization, brought back from the hands of death by the greed and evil of this current time.
He'd been ripped from his fate, a death he'd accepted with open arms, and forced back into life as a stranger to the entire world. In time, some distant descendants of the Savannah who had formed an Empire larger and grander than the Kingdom he'd once known accepted him into the fold and given him a new home. Ragash was a place that he had grown fond of, and working for Medja and Ahti had been a most welcome distraction from the turmoil he felt about his resurrection.
But it was a distraction, and nothing more.
B-taa's heart still burned for his true home, and he felt it in his bones that here, amongst the dunes and the searing sun, he would find some clue, some remnant of his people. Though generations had passed, the idea that nothing would be left behind was unfathomable to him. Pulling his cart to a halt , he brings the waterskin at his hip up to his mouth, washing the sand from his lips and tongue and nourishing his dry throat.
There was a lot of ground to cover, and this Savannah was far from the safest of places. Inhospitable though it was, that didn't mean it was abandoned. Behind each hill could lie a killer in waiting, seeking to take his new life the same as his first.
