Thursday, March 2, 2017

The Tehir Chronicles, Part 4, First Contact

The figure stands over the body of the stranger, veil and burnoose whipping fiercely in the rapidly rising wind.  The heat, already oppressive, seems to have claimed another victim; this is the sixth one found in half as many days, all taken by the desert.  The other five were buried deep in the sand, and the lone denizen of the desert prepares to do the same with this one; it is not safe to leave bodies upon the sand, their spirits will forever wander the sands, doing evil to those still among the living.

A soft groan, more whimper than anything, emanates from the body.  Immediately the robed traveller kneels in the hot sand and checks to see just how bad off the interloper is. 

The desert dweller pulls back the protective material of the sand-hued veil, revealing her as female, with deep mahogany skin and eyes that are so dark that they appear nearly black.  She quickly and efficiently diagnoses the one lying in the sand; severe dehydration coupled with over-exposure to the heat of the desert.

She reaches under her robes and brings out a skin of water, which she uses to wet the cracked and parched lips of what is now her charge.  As she continues to diagnose her patient, she makes a thorough inspection of the individual.

Her findings puzzle her; she has never seen anyone quite like this before.  Though appearing human, the ears are slightly pointed and the features are sharp, and the individual has surprisingly pale skin, at least the skin that was covered and not badly burned by the sun. 

The person is male, with eyes of blue, hair the colour of gold reaching past the shoulders, and a light beard to match.  He wears a metallic armour made of a material she has never before seen, bearing a crest consisting of a silver oak tree on a field of blue. 

His helm is of the same material, and it is this helm, which probably led to his demise; she thinks to herself that he may as well have put his head into the flames of a fire, since wearing a metallic helm in this sun amounts to the same thing.

There is no time to further consider the man's appearance; she must get him out of the sun, or he is doomed.  She whistles, loud and shrill, and soon a great beast lumbers over the dunes towards her.  This is a yierka, and, though fearsome to behold, it is her chosen mount.

From a pannier that the beast bears, she gets a bundle.  After a few minutes of work, she has erected a sunshade and drags the man beneath it.  She begins to unbuckle the numerous straps that hold his armour on, removes it, and begins to soak his undergarments in water, trying to cool him as fast as she can.

As she works to cool the man, he wakens numerous times, delirious with the heat.  He mutters strange words in an unintelligible language; she can't consider this as she works to save his life, time is short.

Once she has him saturated, she moves on to address the badly sunburned skin of his face and hands.  As she applies a salve she had in one of her pouches, she studies his features more closely.  His age cannot be determined due to his burned and blistered skin, but she can tell he was once a handsome man, though his chances of being so again are poor, his face will be scarred for certain, if he lives.

Moving on to attend to his hands, she notices they are heavily calloused.  There is a large sword in a scabbard hanging from his belt; she assumes his hands show years of use of the weapon.

She begins to loosen his clothing to allow some air to flow to his skin and as she does so she sees has numerous scars, obviously wounds from previous battles.  This man is obviously some kind of warrior, and has been for some time.  Pity that he trained so hard for battle and so little to survive in her land; she has her doubts as to whether he will pull through.

As the sun begins to dip toward the horizon and the day ends, she continues her ministrations to the man.  She has begun giving him small sips of her precious water, trying to save his life.  Suddenly, his eyes flutter open and he begins to thrash upon the ground, convulsing. 

It is at this point she knows for certain that she won't be able to save him, she knows his convulsions are a prelude to death, the desert will claim yet another victim; all she can do is attempt to make him as comfortable as she can.

As night falls, she sits across from the man, watching his laboured breathing, knowing he will not see the dawn of a new day; there is nothing she can do for him and his strength is rapidly waning.

Who is this stranger to her land, why is he here, and where did he come from?  Why would someone who is obviously improperly trained and poorly outfitted to survive in the Sea of Fire be here at all?  More importantly, how many more of them are there? 

She continues her vigil throughout the night, holding his hand in her own, remaining with him until, shortly before dawn, he draws his last breath. 

She buries the man in the custom of her people, as she was prepared to do from the start, not wanting his spirit to wander the desert for eternity.  She keeps his helm, crafted of that strange metal and plumed with a long, bluish-green, iridescent feather, to bring back to her people, wondering if any of them have ever heard of such a people as she has encountered.


She mounts her yierka and begins the long trip home, and, though she knows nothing of the men she buried, she has a nagging feeling, deep down inside, and she knows that things will never be the same.

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