Dark Seduction RPG

[piosenniel]

Durelin's Post:

The Priestess, Sevora, walked swiftly through the dimly lit corridor. She wore long robes of a sickly dark red, the color of dried blood, and of a black as in the deep dark of an endless abyss. They swayed without a sound. Around her head was a band made of a black wiry metal made to look like a strip of thorns. The tips of the spikes were the same blood red as her robes. At the end of the dark hallway was a large door of black iron leading into what was known as The Hall of the Black Sage. The corridor was meant to represent the long dark path of a life of a priest or priestess of the Dark Religion. At the end stood the gate to "wisdom". The door reminded them of the reward, for reward they saw it as. A sick, twisted state of mind where good and evil stood not. There stood only power, in their eyes, but blood and dark to the eyes of the sane. Their "wisdom" results in an everlasting death. Those large black iron doors did lead to that "wisdom," or the greatest example of the grotesque state of mind: the High Priest of the Dark Citadel.

Sevora reached the "gateway" and heaved the doors open, sending a loud, vibrating clang of iron striking iron around the hall, as they hit the black walls of The Hall of the Black Sage. At the harsh sound, the priestess smirked, a small curl of her lip. Her presence deserved to be announced, in one way or another. She stepped up to a small set of stairs leading up to a miniature stage covered by a putrid off-white color curtain, much like the pale skin of a corpse. On either side were large black chairs with the same thorny effect as Sevora’s headband, also with the bloodied tips. In them sat two old men of the Haradrim in robes the same color as the curtain. They were the councilors of the High Priest.

"Ah," came an oily voice from behind the curtain, "Sevora, one of the most beloved of The Priesthood of the Eye. I am glad you have answered my calling so promptly. I have important work for you." The voice had an uncanny hiss to it, behind all of the oil. It had the habit of making the listener feel that he or she is covered in muck, a nastiness that they needed to wipe off. But the priestess had heard this voice all too often. She was a loyal and valuable servant to her Lord of Darkness, her "God". Her reckless and blood - thirsty nature had brought her high in the order of the Eye, and she was overwhelmingly proud of that. No, yet again, she was called to serve the Eye, for she was eternally anxious to.

"Thank you, O Wisest one to the Eye," Sevora began a cold voice that seemed on the verge of screaming in rage, and bowing low to the ground, "for counting me, as a lowly servant, worthy of being in your presence. And furthermore, in giving me the privilege to serve our Dark Lord in a stronger way than my daily worships. I will not fail the Eye or the Priesthood. Death first, shall I taste." That was one of the greatest teachings of the twisted priests, "Coldness of death before burning shame of failure." Sevora had always had a way with words, buttering up those fat with groveling servants and riches. How else would she have gotten this far? The High Priest had because of his blood. He was a Dark Numenorean, one of the ruling class of Harad.

"I know of your unceasing loyalty, that is why I have chosen you for this," the oily voice hissed. But now the source of it was revealed. The pale curtain lifted to show a man with skin as pale as the curtain, if not paler. The skin on his face was tightly fitted over his bones, so that his bald resembled a skull. He was dressed in robes of black with a large collar ticking up behind his skull-like head. The collar also followed the thorny style, with large spikes rising above the "skull," tips of a bloody red. The red opal on the man's forehead completed the grotesque appearance with its innumerable shades of color swirling about like fire. This was the High Priest of the Dark Citadel. The "wisest" and most powerful of The Priesthood of the Eye.

"As you are well aware," the High Priest continued, "The War is beginning that we have long awaited, greatly desired," his eyes flashed with a lust for the war that would bring him so much power. "The Eye needs followers to fulfill his destiny to rule all. There are nomadic tribes in the outlands, ones your people, the Haradrim have long met to trade with. Now we will bring them the one true faith. They will serve for our purposes, but…" he paused for a moment with hungry eyes staring at something in his own mind, as if he were looking upon his next words. "But, you will meet some resistance, of that I am sure. The tribesmen are a stubborn race of barbarians, though most can be seduced. Of course, as our Priestess of the Sacrifice…you should manage admirably." The High Priest stopped and looked at Layla-Abida. Her eyes were filled with excitement. He smiled, a small cruel smile, at her hunger to deal out death. She returned his smile with one of immense cruelty and lust for bloodshed.

"You will need an escort," the "wisest" went on, bringing the priestess back to the present. "I have already sent a notice around the city. We cannot spare any of our guards here." He frowned at this, and his skin stretched downward making his eyes seem to bug out of his head. "You should also chose two of our priests to accompany you. Make sure they are of the understanding, and, hopefully, are of the warriors." The High Priest's eyes moved to Sevora once again, this time with a commanding look, as she replied coldly, "Yes, O Wisest of the Dark."

"Good," he said firmly, "You are dismissed, you must begin preparations at once."


"Yes, O Greatest Servant to the Eye," she answered with a different praising title for the High Priest. She bowed low, then turned sharply and walked swiftly and silently out of the great hall, back into the dim corridor. At last! she thought, I will get to ardently serve The Eye. I will bring Him men to serve Him, and slaughter those who refuse the Dark Lord. It will feel good to take blood from filthy infidels once again! Gliding down the dark hallway The Red Flame giggled like a little girl at the thought.

[piosenniel]

Arien's post:

Dristi walked in to the dimly lit square room. The far right side was raised, with crimson and black fabrics strewn around the higher level. There was a step covered in candles and then the floor which was painted blood red. The ceiling was high, and it was so dark it seemed as though it extended on into eternity. The walls were pitch black but had various weapons across them. Her figure slowly walked to the higher level, the smell and the smoke of incense whirled around her shrouded form. Dristi took her place on her cushions and then clicked her fingers.

“You may enter,” she said slyly. Five frightened priests entered the room, all in traditional dress. “You know why you are here do you not?” she did not wait for an answer although a few of them nodded, “ You are here to fight, each other. One of you will survive,” she smiled, “.. just one. You are being punished, rather than being sacrificed you will die failing. But I think it is quite fun. Welcome to the Sanctuary of Death, one but all of you will die on the Floor of Bloodshed and they will be forgiven for their crime.”

She looked at each of the priests, they looked absolutely distressed with the thought of killing their associates. “It is the only way you will learn!” she shouted at them, her voice echoed through the sanctuary. Then all was still.

“This is stupid…” whispered one of the priests.

Dristi had heard, her head lolled to the side and she gracefully got up. Slowly she walked down to the floor and up to the priest who had said it.

“Ohh, we have a smart one?” she said cynically looking the man in the eyes. Slowly she lifted her robe and took out one of her knives. She brushed it across the priests face then rocked it back and forth across his head, “Whished you hadn’t said it now, don’t you?” she put her hands on the mans shoulders and whispered into his ear. “I wont kill you, I like you. A lot.” the man smiled but he should have known better than to trust her, “I tell you what, I will kill the rest and then we can…” she wrapped her hands around him and then withdrew away and kissed him on the lips. She turned her back and the man was smiling intently, but the rest of the priests looked horrified. This man did not know what he had coming for him.

“Thank you,” he said trying to catch his breath which was now short and shallow from facing near death.

She turned round, the other priests stood awkwardly watching the spectacle. She came up close to him, kissed him once more. She clenched her knife in her fist, drove it deep into his heart. She released the knife from her grasp, he fell backwards and as he lay on the floor blood poured out from his mouth and the wound. “Opps, my hand slipped!” she said to the other shrugging her shoulder, “And he was so looking forward to it!” she took her soaked dagger from the now dead man and went back to her level, she cleaned it, then Dristi stared at the slaves “Take it away! You get to survive, count yourselves lucky!”

They left and she was alone by herself. She smiled and closed her eyes. For a while she stayed and prayed to the Eye.

"Oh Dark Lord, give me the strength to kill for you, to hate for you, to punish for you, to meet all of your deeds without faliure. My heart, my soul is always eternally yours...forever"

[piosenniel]

Arelindel's post:

Naramarth moved silently through the dark, shadowy corridors of the dark citadel, his feet making little sound as he strided between the shadows. Banners of blood red hang down the walls, still and foreboding in the dry, hot air trapped inside the citadel’s walls. The air burnt his lungs, a feeling which Naramarth loved. His hands went to his throat adjusting the ties that held his cloak in place, the hem of which was trailing lifelessly on the floor, making a soft swishing sound as he walked.

Naramarth quickened his pace, clenching his pale hands beneath his robes, something was happening in this place, the air had become drier recently if that was possible and whatever the change, Naramarth intended to use it to his advantage.

Naramarth suddenly stopped at a banner. He looked it up and down, admiring the work that had been done. He smirked to himself to see drops of blood on it, and not old blood, dry and hard but fresh, it made his skin crawl; tingle even with pleasure. One of the priestess had been playing with the slaves again. He cackled to himself as he continued on. The word had been spread that there was going to be a ‘trip’ to deal with the rebels of the desert. Naramarth hoped to be one the priests chosen to go. He would take great pleasure in dealing with the rebels who stood against the will of his Dark Lord and God. His hand reached through the folds of his robe, his pale skin glistened with oil even though the skin was brittle. He rubbed his hands together, loving the sound of skin against skin and bones snapping back into place. He was ready to honour his God and destroy the forces that stood against him.

Finally Naramarth reached the end of the corridor, in front of him stood a huge pair of doors. Glistening in the candle light to shone on them. They were made of dark metal like most important doors in the citadel. They were huge, reaching up to the ceiling, shrouded in mist and shadow that always hung from the roof beams. His hand ran over the design cut into the door; a huge eye lidless, rimmed with flame. Naramarth’s heart soared as he pushed against the weight of the door. Of all the chambers of the priesthood this was the biggest, the most important save the temple where they prayed and worshipped their God. This was the meeting hall and this was where Naramarth’s adventure would begin.

[piosenniel]

Lyra's post - Sammael

Sammael laughed, showing white teeth. He had noticed that this was one very effective way to catch a woman’s attention. It worked, she was watching him.
”More ale” he called to the tavern maid, flashing her a smile that often did the same job.

“Could you not just have called her? Why all this grinning like a lackwit?” Sammael glanced at Damodred. His voice sounded cranky, but that was nothing new. Sammael had worked with the old man for years, and although he might have begun with the idea that Sammael was not a warrior, he certainly knew different now.

“A smile now might lead to better things later” he said, giving an exaggerated wink. A few of the men around the rickety table laughed.
“Deal the cards, then, if you’re not scared I will take you for all you’re worth” Sammael continued, giving another wink to the maid as she brought the pewter jugs.
“Indeed, young man? There may come a day yet when you beat me, but I do not think it will be today!”

Sammael chuckled along with Damodred. It was true, he had little talent at cards, except for tricks. Still, it was fun and he had money from raiding. What else was it good for but having fun? And new weapons. Idly Sammael stroked the hilt of his new curved sword as Damodred shuffled the cards. A scimitar, the dealer had called it- from some far off land. It had a good weight, it looked good and seemed deadly. Yes, he considered, life was generally good. He could have been stuck holding up fabrics or jewels for traders, like his father.
I might never have known the sublime feeling of the fight, the victory! he thought, with an inward shudder. I might have…married. Relief filled him. Why would you want to limit yourself to one woman? That tavern maid had a pretty face, but then so did the other. And the woman sitting with her husband in the corner. Admittedly, men were not expected to be faithful, but there were obligations, responsibilities. Yes, children were nice but he had three nephews and four nieces! Who needed more? No, life was good as it was. In fact-

“Are you going to sit there mooning over a pretty face all night?”
Damodred’s prickly voice cut through his dreams. Nightmares! he corrected himself with a grimace, then picked up his hand. As usual it was terrible, as a far too expressive face told Damodred clearly. The old man shook his head.

******

“Join our quest to the Southlands. A chance to fight for the glory of the Eye and the progression of Umbar. Fight the barbarians and turn them to the true path-guard the Priestess and help her in her mission. Conquer the lands of the Heathen and gain their support or provide their destruction. The Glory of the Dark Citadel to all who follow us. Make yourself known to the guards there. Glory to the Eye”
The voice of the Guard stopped intoning the proclamation and began to roll up his scroll.

Sammael had listened consideringly, lowering his head respectfully at the mention of the Eye. The man had the light of someone who served the Eye burning in his eyes. Sammael admired him. He would have volunteered as a Guard for the Dark Citadel if they led a more exciting life. And, of course, if they had more time to spend in the inns of the city. After considered thought he had judged he was probably best doing what he knew, but he sometimes felt he wasn’t doing enough. This journey would offer a chance to serve the Eye, which he sometimes felt he neglected, but also provide the more practical adventure he loved.

He turned to Damodred. The little man was watching him, head cocked to one side like a bird.
“Well?” he asked, “This seems right up your street, Sammael. Are we in?”
Sammael nodded slowly, then broke into his trademark grin.
“Yes. We’re in. Come on, let’s go up to the Citadel”

[ June 05, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Lyra's post - Essenia

Essenia scowled as she walked through the town, dark eyes showing only suppressed anger. So far that morning she had had to draw her knife on three Corsairs who could only think of one reason why a pretty young woman would be walking where she was. One of them had lost his left hand. She sighed; it was a shame when that sort of thing happened to men that were fighting for Umbar. She never had any regrets harming anyone else. If they were not from Umber then what was the point of them existing? Soon, she hoped, she would again have the chance to fight for her country.

Ahead Essenia saw a man with a well made cloak of expensive material. Something of the way he walked reminded her of her odious husband. Her heart began to beat faster, but she refused to put up her cowl. If Taine was meant to find her, he would. And she had her daggers, seven in various spots, with which she could take her life. Surprisingly she had no desire to kill Taine. Perhaps it was the only consideration she showed to her children, not to take away both of their parents. With little emotion she watched the man turned to take a side road. Essenia let out a breath she had not realised she had been holding. The bearded man was certainly not Taine, and not one of his friends either. In fact, though, that was another reason to leave the town. Fate would catch her, if it wanted, but there was no harm reducing the likelihood. On a ship or in a raiding party there would never be any chance of meeting Taine. Essenia nearly smiled at the thought of her husband getting his hands dirty with any sort of work, let alone fighting. The fool man could barely kill a spider. Her gaze darkened. Not even for the sake of Umbar. People like him were almost as pointless as outlanders.

“-for the glory of the Eye and the progression of Umbar. Fight the barbarians and turn them to the true path-“
The voice cut through Essenia’s thoughts. Glancing up she saw a man from one of the temples to the Eye, the usual fevered light burning in his own eyes. She was irritated by these men, who had chosen another’s glory over that of Umbar. They could very well talk about the progression of Umbar, but it came second to their Eye. She followed the Eye as well as any other in Umbar, it was a habit she had grown up with, but only so far as it benefited her land. Still, she pushed herself to the front of the small crowd.
“-guard the Priestess and help her in her mission. Conquer the lands of the Heathen and gain their support or provide their destruction. The Glory of the Dark Citadel to all who follow us. Make yourself known to the guards there. Glory to the Eye”
Essenia contemplated what the man had said. In truth she had heard only half of his announcement, but she felt the familiar excitement. New lands for Umbar, new glory for the Corsairs. Personal glory meant little to her, especially as she had to remain hidden. It rankled that she would, in fact, be serving the Dark Religion first and foremost, but the benefits for Umbar… Then she realised. No ships. No having to hide the nausea each time they bounced over a swell- the only remaining sign of her cosseted early life. For the second time in less than half an hour Essenia almost smiled.

[ June 05, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Nerindel's post:

Ghurdan walked through the city streets of Umber with his latest offerings for the Dark one, Two Elven females and three Gondorian males from Dol Amroth. He yanked hard on the chains that bound them together, forcing them to quicken their pace. He was in a foul mood, This last raid had began well and the bounty was rich, but on the return journey he had been forced to throw half the plunder over board when Three war ships from Dol Armoth gave chase. They had managed to evade their enemies even sinking one of their ships, but not before they had damaged the Fire Spray's aft and downed her main mast. The Fire Spray had limped into port in a bad way, Ghurdan was mad with fury, but as he had also lost more than half his crew he could not afford to take it out on them. It was going to take at least an month to repair, this only made him madder but he gritted his teeth and hauled the prisoner up from the hull, shouting various orders to his crew, he knew they would obey him, as he kept their pockets lined with gold, but more than that they feared what he would do to them if they did not carry out his orders.


As he walked through the city he growled at passers-by in the hope that one of them would challenge him, so he would have someone to vent his anger on. But none of the passers-by would oblige him instead they lowered their heads and hurried passed or they crossed the street keeping out of the Corsairs way. Ghurdan, The Black Heart was well known and feared by the people of Umbar. "Cowards the lot of them" he spat, as he again yanked the prisoners chains. One of the Elven women stumbled and fell to her knees, He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her to her feet, shouting viciously "Get up elf witch". As he pulled her up she spat in his face, her actions had finally broke his temper and he slapped her hard across the face, breaking her nose and leaving the fiery imprint of his hand on her delicate white skin. He was slightly surprised that the woman had not passed out, but he did not show it. Instead he prodded her roughly with the tip of his spear, making her stumble again but this time she was quicker to rise. A satisfied grin spread across his face as she rose.


When they reached the Citadel the usual Priest was there to meet him. he was an average sized man with short black hair, Wearing the normal Black and dried blood red robes of his order. A black mace with red spikes hung from his belt and Ghurdan did not doubt that he knew how to use it.

"So what gifts have you brought your god today," The priest hissed excitedly. Without replying he pushed the prisoners forwards.
"Ah, three Gondorians and two Elves. Yes, his exhaltedness will be most pleased." he said examining the prisoners, "This one is damaged" he hissed holding the elf woman's face and turning it to him. "She was insolent" he calmly replied. The priest said nothing and moved on to inspect the others.

The priest then turned to his young apprentice spitting on him as he spoke " Take the Woman to be prepared and take the men to be questioned!" The young man bowed low and then took the prisoners away, as he went two Citadel guards fell in behind them.

The Priest reached down and pulled a large money pouch from his robes and threw it to Ghurdan. Showing no emotion what so ever he caught it, the weight seemed right so he didn't bother to count it. He nodded to the priest waiting to be dismissed , but the priest now had something else in his hands and was grinning wickedly. It was a scroll, "A message from the High priest himself" the man hissed pushing the scroll into his hands and hurrying from the room. Ghurdan slowly unrolled the scroll, reading the blood red lettering on the page.
_____________________________________________

Black Heart

The Black Citadel again requires your capable skills, we wish you to accompany the Priestess Sevora, The Red Flame and two other priests or priestesses of her choosing.

They will be going to recruit new followers from a nomadic dessert tribe in the outlands, south of Harad. Your job is to kill any resistors and ensure the safety of the priestesses and or priests. Sevora is a valued member of our order and her safety is your utmost priority, not That we think she needs any protection but she will be travelling with six other warriors that may think the killing of a priestess will elevate their position and reputation!

Be at the Citadel's courtyard, when the sun is at it's highest in the sky.

Failure will incur the wrath of The Eye

High Priest of the Eye.
_____________________________________________

As he finished reading he realised that his hand had gone instinctively to the scare on his left cheek, the scar that Sevora herself had given him. As he ran his fingers along it he chuckled to himself , not only would he be serving his Dark lord again but he would be travelling with the woman that was most defiantly his match in strength and cruelty. With that thought he returned to the Fire Spray, to make ready for the journey ahead.

[ June 05, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Piosenniel's post:

It was early evening. Families were gathered in front of their tents, eating the day’s end meal. Children laughed and ran among the groups, stealing a bit of flat bread here, a slice of fruit there. The elders clucked at them in mock remonstrance, their wide bright smiles belying any real anger.

‘Little birds,’ they called out to them, ‘why do you steal a poor man’s last crumbs!’

The children shrieked with laughter at the question, their voices trailing off as they ran wildly into the tall grass toward the last rays of the setting sun.

Jamíla picked at her food as she watched the children. Though the approaching night was warm, she felt a chill creep across her shoulders. ‘Some unlucky breeze from the north,’ she thought to herself, though glancing up, the tall grass of the plains stood deathly still against the last inches of light, the tip of each stalk seeming to burn with a reddish glow. She shook her shoulders trying to shake off the cold feeling, and placed her right palm against her heart to ward off evil.

Until a very few years ago, life for her had gone smoothly. There were birthings to be seen to, and dying to be eased. Women seeking husbands, wanting babies. Men seeking wives, better fortunes, greater luck in the hunt. Rites of passage to be seen to. The ordinary things that made a full, good life for her.

But then came the first hints of shadow and despair. First on the ashy wind that blew sometimes from the north, bringing a faint sharp, bitter smell, then in the darkness that grew in her readings as she cast the bones to augur at the new moon’s rising. And now, among many of the young, a festering shadow had crept in to devour their spirits.

Jamílah stood and beckoned for her daughters to stand also. ‘Call your children in,’ she told them in a low, urgent voice. ‘Call them quickly. Keep them close. Some shadow comes for us, and soon . . . with bloodied hands . . .’

[ June 05, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Ealasaid's post:

The rock had been growing steadily larger out of the flat and open grasslands all day. Now, as Ahmad bin Ishak rode into its shadow, it towered over him, a stark and craggy spike of granite in a sea of waving prairie grass. The rock, or the Tooth as his tribe called it, represented the last solid landmark before one entered the region of the shifting sands. With the tiny spring bubbling at its base, it also represented the last source of fresh water for miles.

Sensing the nearness of water, Ahmad's mount, a golden bay stallion called Sham, knickered softly and pulled at the reins. A trill of excitement ran down the string of horses he led as well. Ahmad smiled.

"Yes," he said in his own dialect. "All of you will be seeing water and rest before you know it." He reached down and patted Sham's neck.

The horse responded by shaking his small, graceful head and dancing a few steps sideways. Ahmad's smile broadened. Absently, he gave the horse's glistening neck an extra caress and dismounted.

"We've made good time," he added softly, but all the while, his dark, amber-flecked eyes scanned the horizons. A scorching wind blew in from the north, but there was nothing other than sand and swaying grasses as far as the eye could see. At least that is what he thought at first, but his attention was caught by what seemed to be movement, a cloud of dust, growing against the southern horizon. That should be his kinsman, Yusef al Rahman, riding up to join him. They were to take on the region of the sand together. Leaving the shadow of the rock, Ahmad moved a few steps toward the distant dust cloud. Whoever it was, he was riding hard and fast.

Ahmad had initially planned to camp at the rock that night and wait until dusk of the following day before entering the open sand. From there, he and Yusef would travel due north until they reached the Fatwa Oasis. A large and busy oasis, it was the ideal place for them to resupply from the traders who seemed to have semi-permanent encampments there. Also, it would give the horses a chance to rest, not to mention himself an opportunity to catch up with the news from the rest of the world. He planned to make the journey from the rock to the oasis at night when there were stars to guide them, and there was some respite from the oppressive heat. After all, they couldn't very well deliver a string of starving and heat-ravaged animals to the King of Harad. Some gift that would make... an insult more likely.

Keeping one eye on the rapidly approaching dust cloud in the south, Ahmad saw to the horses. Once they had been watered and tethered out to graze, he pitched his own tent and built a small fire. In addition to Sham and his packhorse, Ahmad had in his charge five saddlehorses that were intended as a gift to the King of Harad from Ahmad's father, the headman of the Painted Sand Tribe. Actually, the horses were not so much a gift as a bribe. For years, Ahmad's tribe had sent a tribute of horses to Umbar. Small and fast, they were better suited to the desert than the great horses of Rohan far to the north. As a result, the Painted Sand horses were much sought after in the region and considered immensely valuable. In return for the annual gift of horses, the tribe received a relative lack of interference from the Haradrim in general and were pretty much left to themselves to do as they would. But lately...

Ahmad glanced up at the now darkening sky. Lately, a shadow had fallen across the land and was spreading rapidly across the desert. Rumors told of a Red Eye and of how in the cities, fearful acolytes preached a new religion, one of bloodshed and stygian doom. New converts flocked to its banner every day. Even among the members of his own relatively isolated tribe, he had noticed a stark factionalism growing between the traditionalists and the followers of the new faith. The young men especially, many of them Ahmad's own peers, had taken to wearing their weapons openly. They refused to tend to the horses as they had always done in the past, preferring instead to hang together in packs on the fringes of the encampment, fingering their daggers and watching. Waiting. They reminded Ahmad of jackals.

Ahmad's father, Ishak bin Ishak, had noticed this, too, and been concerned enough to send Ahmad north with an additional string of horses. Ahamd found himself wondering if they were not already too late. After all, the moral decay had already infected the blood of his kinsmen. Soon it would eat away at the bone.

At first, Ahmad had been relieved to take on the task of delivering the horses, but now, two days out from his tribe's encampment, he worried for the safety of his aging parents and of his two sisters, Chani and Shushila. He should have stayed at their sides and let another play the part of messenger boy to the king.

Having laid out his camp, Ahmad again walked toward the rising dust cloud in the south. The rider would be upon him shortly. Ahmad could now hear clearly the hoofbeats of the galloping horse. He waited. Moments later, the rider reined his black mount to an abrupt halt before Ahmad. Caked in dust and sweat, his face fully covered but the eyes by his headshawl, the rider leapt from his horse. Quickly, he approached Ahmad. Crossed swords clanked softly under his robe.

"Hail, kinsman!" he said breathlessly. It was Yusef.

"Hail, cousin," replied Ahmad. His eyes flicked to the lathered flanks of the black horse. "You have been riding hard. What are the tidings? What prompts such urgency?"

Yusef lowered the tail of his headshawl to reveal his dark, dusty face. "Things go ill with our tribe. The night you left there was a knifing. Your father has the guilty man bound and under guard, but there are rumblngs of anger, especially among our peers. We must return at once."

Immediately, Ahmad pictured the hungry, watchful eyes of the Jackals, as he had come to think of them. He had known there would be trouble. He should never have left. "And my father? How is he?"

"Angry. He never walks the camp unguarded. Guards watch your family's compound at all times."

"And my mother? My sisters?"

"They are well and safe for the moment."

For the moment, echoed Ahmad mentally. "We return at once," he said brusquely. "There are dates and dried meats by the fire. Feed yourself while I break camp. We will move your saddle to another horse and start back immediately." Without giving Yusef a chance to respond, he turned and vanished into his tent. The first items he reached for were his swords. With the camp broken and fresh horses saddled, they were riding southward again within the hour, the great rock sinking into the grassland behind them like a fading memory.

[ June 06, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Aylwen's post:

“It hasn’t rained in four months,” Jasara’s grandmother spoke, from behind the tent’s curtain. A young Jasara lay scrunched up, under warm sheets that protected her from the night’s deathly chill. The memory was so real; Jasara felt she could almost touch the silky curtain that separated the areas of the tent.

“It will rain in two days. It will flood, or almost,” little Jasara whispered, repeating what something inside the girl had told her. Quick as lightning the curtain flew back, and her father’s worry-wrinkled face was visible.

“What did you say?” Her father grumbled, and the younger Jasara repeated the prediction. Her father dismissed the crazy ramblings of his tiny daughter, and returned to his meeting with the most important leaders of their large nomadic tribe.

Suddenly, Jasara woke from her dream, sweating. The sky was above her, and in the sleep-bag next to hers belonged to her ‘second-in-command’. All around her laying strewn about the short grasslands were the younger members of the nomadic tribe. They had long ago refused to use tents, justifying that they would rather ‘be eaten by the hungry beasts of the Eye than sleep in the way of the elders’.

Jasara remembered the outcome of her memory. The children of the tribe praised her and worshipped her like she was some deity when the rain came two days later. The leaders of the tribe dismissed the prophecy as though Jasara had never spoken up that night. Jasara would not forget that time; the time she had first seen the Eye in her dreams. It had a voice, this lidless eye did, and it haunted her. Whispering to Jasara in her dreams, it would tell her things…things that Jasara would not know any other way. Jasara told no one what haunted her so many nights and days.

The tribe was split in two. The children and the young adults of the wandering barbarians rarely listened to the pride-stricken elders. It had brought fury to the minds of the younger generation that the wisest of their kin would not believe a vision when it hit them in the face. They all thought it was because they were the young, the hopeless, and the stupid. All the young despised the elders, who believed that the young were so stupid that they’d need to be protected forever.

Jasara had become the appointed leader of the Young, and they worshipped Jasara and her ideas…or at least the ideas she conveyed. The girl had become their leader. Jasara did not return to sleep, and sat to watch the sun rise.

“Something wrong, Jasara? We can sleep for almost an hour still,” A boy nearby spoke raptly, and rolled over in his sleep-bag.

“Nothing is wrong. I just can’t sleep.” Jasara got up from under her blankets and pulled on the boots she had stolen from one of the old warriors, who had died shortly after the theft. Jasara rolled up her sleep-pack, and carried it with her as she walked towards the nearby creek. The short, dry grass crunched under her feet as she neared the creek.

Another day begins, I see. A hoarse, deathly whisper sounded in Jasara’s mind. Jasara nodded grimly, and went on to wash her face in the cool, clear stream.

[ June 05, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Sophia's post:

The sun rose red over the eastern horizon, and Khasia was awake early. Jasara’s stirring had woken her, and she looked up to hear her softly telling one of the boys that nothing was wrong. Khasia gazed after Jasara as she strode toward the stream, wondering what was on her sister’s mind that woke her so early. Jasara was often distracted.

Khasia lay still for a long moment, savoring the feeling of her warm blankets before the day’s hot work began. Then she stretched and crawled out of her sleep bag. The same boy who had spoken to Jasara sat up again. “You too, Khasia?” he asked. Khasia bundled her sleep bag up and tied it securely before prodding the boy with her toe.

“It’s a fine morning, lazy, and I’m going to run.” Khasia loved to run, just for the feeling of it, and she often ran in the mornings before the sun turned too hot. It gave her solitude—a chance to get away from the irritating fawning of the other young people on her sister. She used the quiet to plan as well. Jasara couldn’t always be right, and where she failed Khasia intended to be right.

This morning was no different than most, and Khasia ran through the short grasses, her bare feet sending up small clouds of dust as they pounded the sunbaked ground. Her shoulder length hair was in braids and the hard knots of fabric she’d used to tie them off bounced against her neck as she ran. When she was a good distance from the tribe’s camp Khasia slowed. She was near the creek, north of the place where Jasara had been headed. When she reached the water she dropped to the ground and drank thirstily. A few of the small berries that grew on the low bushes beside the creek were a sweet reward after her run.

Khasia sat there for a few moments, thinking about the day ahead. It would be long and filled with irritating orders from people whose minds were as wrinkled and faded as their faces. Her face twisted and she spit the seed from a berry into the dirt, burying it absently with a brown toe. For now it must be endured. There weren’t enough of the young people to leave the old and start again. Safety resided in numbers, and for now the old ones were at least good for that.

Setting her face Khasia rose and made her way back to camp. Her pace was a slow jog, giving her plenty of time to mull over her thoughts while she ran. She gave the sun another glance, it’s color still red long after it would usually have turned a fierce yellow. The day was going to be strange, Khasia thought, and wondered vaguely what it would hold.

[ June 05, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Helkahothion's post

Thorgom walked away from the camp for a bit. He had enough of all those man telling tales by the fire. Always talking about things they had done in the early days, too much of cowards to do other things. Thorgom hated those men. He was one of the few that would only brag about his body and his strength. People called him arrogant, but why would he deny the facts? He sat down and started taking out his frustration on a nearby tree. He bashed and smashed, cutting it into neat logs.

He placed his axe back on his back and took the logs. He went back to the fire and placed them with the firewood. He sat down with the others. One of the men, a little worm with an arrogant tone of voice, laughed at him.
"Frustrated that you can't do battle again? Why not sit with us and let it go. Your days are over. Everything must end eventually."

Thorgom took one of his throwing axes and it flashed across the fire. The man screamed. Everybody turned to the tree. The man's arm was nailed against it. His wrist pinned with one of Thorgom's axes. Eyes where filled with horror as the big man stood up and walked over to the tree. But he just took out the axe and picked up a burning branch from the fire.
"This might hurt a bit, master big mouth." He mumbled as he placed the fire near the stump that once held the man's hand.

The man screamed and many of the man fled from the fire. Thorgom just smiled at the ignorance. As he looked up, rain was setting in. He left the man with a nasty burn and walked to his tent.

[ June 05, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Durelin]

The Red Flame paced back and forth across the polished black stone floor. Her soft boots made muffled thumps and her robes swished across the stones. The wall of the same stone were hardly visible in the flickering shadows of the windoless room caused by the flames burning from the floor. Lines of man sized holes of fire formed a pathway to the center of the rectangular room, right to a large oval shaped stone carved into the shape of an eye. The Eye, with more path running around it, breaks in the flames on either side. Around the pathway curved large wooden seats made purpously to look charred. Sevora expected they had been. A sweet, misty smoke filled the air, sweet at least to the priestess's sense of smell. She had never been sure what the Keepers burned, but she expected it was a mix of dried blood and spices. She wasn't sure how they burned dried blood, but it still made this her favorite room in the entire Citadel. Today it was even better.

A few moments would bring the priest and priestess she had chosen to accompany her. The High Priest and the High Keeper would also come. It was the High Keeper's responsibility to oversee the meeting, though the High Priest would be the one to conduct it. It was also the man's (it could be a woman, but the postition was held by a man at the moment) job to carry out the Ceremony of the Missions. Whenever any member of the Citadel left on a mission the the Eye they must undergo a marking as a bringer of the faith to the infedel and must be made whole with the Knowledge that brings to them life without death.

The first to enter was the Priest Naramarth, grinning to himself. The man showed too many of his emotions, or perhaps he was just...happy. But all the same, his smile made her feel queasy, for it adorned his face almost constantly. It was such a feeling of pleasure, that queasiness. It felt so good. Yes, she had chosen rightly. The smile hid much. Sevora decided to don her own smile, one with mock warmness, the closest she could come to the real thing. She looked at him, her eyes cold, searching, while she gave him a seemingly warm welcome. "The Eye keep you in his Sight, Priest Naramarth," she said with a bow. Then she gestured to one of the chairs of black wood. "Please, sit in the heat of His burning Sight. May you be soothed by the tongues of his flame."

"I thank you, Priestess Sevora. His flames caress me to bring me life. Let them consume you to bring you eternal pleasure." He made a short bow and seemed to glide down the path surrounded by flames to where the Eye sat in the center of the room. He knelt to kiss it, then stepped around it and through the break in the flames to the right to his seat. Soon the Priestess Dristi arrived, and the process was repeated. After the arrival of the priest and priestess, however, there was no need for the ceremony, and Sevora also sat down. The Keeper did not speak; he was not allowed to. When he was made the High Keeper, the man's tongue was removed, so he only kissed the Eye before he took a seat. But he also gave the High Priest a bow, as did the others when the Highest One entered the meeting hall. The High Priest also had need only to kiss the Eye, since no others present were above him, or his equals. They could not speak to him without him speaking to them first.

This was not the smallest meeting the Hall of Undone Discord had seen, but the large room was still very empty. Every sound echoed to seem louder. A quiet voice was always more effective than shouting. "Ah, may you forever remain in His Sight, Children of the Eye," the High Priest began, smiling to show crooked yellow teeth. "The Red Flame, our Sister Sevora has called upon you to accompany her in her mission to the Eyeto bring the infidels to the Sight..." The High Priest paused a moment, licking his lips before returning them to an even wider smile. "...or to justice." Sevora suppresed the rush of yearning and excitement that ran through her and only smiled. She saw controlling your emotions as a key to power and to the utmost fulfillment of your service to the 'Lord'. "Sevora?" The High Priest turned to the Priestess, bringing her out of her reverie. "I believe you have informed your Brother and Sister of the Sight of what pertains to this mission?"

"Yes, Wisest One to the Eye," she answered, "though, if I may speak?" The High Priest gave her a short nod, and she turned to her 'Sister' and 'Brother'. "The task before us has been explained to you, but if you are not in the fullness of understanding, you must ask to receive that understanding without hesitation." She turned back to the High Priest. "Does the Highest give permission for the Sister and Brother to speak?"

"Yes, they may speak."

[piosenniel]

Dawn had come. The night passed safely through once more, though she had wakened often at the sounds of movement passing between her tents and the tents of her daughters. Jamíla’s hand strayed often to the knife by her pillow. And once she rose into a crouch beside her pallet when the sounds of low voices went whispering past the thin fabric walls. But they had gone on, and only the sounds of the night breezes moving through the grasses, pushing at the sands, filled in the dark silence.

Jamíla rose early from her uneasy dreamings. Tying back the flap of fabric that served as her door, she stepped from her tent. Her muscles were sore from their tense rest, and she stretched them, head to toe, in the pale light of the early day.

The sun, just clearing the edge of the world by a mere finger’s width, was caught in the space between the splayed thumb and first finger of her right hand. She could feel the heat of the new rising day push against her palm, warming, it seemed, the sun tattoo on the back of her hand, between those two fingers. A smile inched up from the corners of her mouth at this.

‘It will be a good day,’ she thought, ‘I have caught the first light.’

Her daughters’ families were already stirring, the sounds of the little ones coming sleepily to her from their tents. Shading her eyes with her hand, she narrowed them, watching as two figures approached from the east. Husam and Nasr, her daughters’ husbands! They drew near, and she could see they had been to the small spring , some distance off, their waterskins dangling from poles across their shoulders.

‘Wife’s-mother!’ Husam’s teeth gleamed white against his dark brown face, smiling, as he greeted her. He sat down his sloshing burden and gave two of the filled skins to her. Not to be outdone, Nasr pulled off a filled skin for her and digging in the pocket of his vest fished out a gift for her.

Caught in a small, twine meshed bag was a scrub lizard. He drew it out carefully, holding it out to her, his eyes glinting with delight. ‘I caught it by the spring, hidden in the grass. It was still cold from the night and could not move quickly enough to make its escape.

She held it on the palm of her hand, admiring the brown body with its cream colored stripes, its belly the color of the white sands. It was a handspan in length and healthy, well fed. Its bright blue tail flicked once and she clasped it more securely, her thumb securing it to her palm.

‘A good sign for this day, Nasr!' The scrub lizard was the totem for her clan. Maneuvering easily between the desert and the savannah, it lived long and well. 'I thank you both!’ She laughed and inclined her head to them, then sent them quickly back to their families to start their own day. Qirfah turned back to her, motioning her to come closer. ‘We almost forgot the best news. We saw the horses of the Painted Sand tribe being led away from the spring as we approached. They are camped a distance east of the spring, I think. We could see their cooking fires in the day’s first light. Ishak ben Ishak’s wife will certainly want to see you.’ They turned to walk back to their tents, Nasr calling back to her. ‘Come eat with us this morning, Wife’s-mother! Naar wishes to show you the little whistle I carved for him.’

She waved him off with a grin, promising she would come. The lizard, still in her fist, had begun to wriggle more as the heat of her hand warmed its blood. ‘No need to fight so,’ she told it. ‘Here,’ she said walking to the back of her tent, ‘I’ll let you go to find your own meal.’ Bending down, she placed it carefully on the ground, watching it scurry south, toward the safety of the taller grasses. Her brow furrowed and she walked slowly across the smoothed dirt and sand of their encampment. The tracks of the hurrying lizard crossed over the tracks of others, many others, and most of them human.

[ August 10, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Nerindel]

On his return to the Fire Spray, Ghurdan had locked himself in his cabin and poured over maps and crew lists, he wished to be well prepared. If this mission involved the red flame he would have to be cautious. He dipped a large black quill into the ink well that sat on his desk and taking a fresh parchment he began to write the names of the men he would be ordering to accompany him on this mission, he eventually had a list of fifteen of his most loyal crew.

A curt knock came from his door, "come" he called without looking up from the list. "you wished to see me, Captain" the young man who was Ghurdan's First mate asked as he entered the room. "Yes" Ghurdan growled, He rose from his seat and handed Zasfal the scroll he had received from the high priest. He watched the young mans dark green eyes widen with a mixture of fear and excitement. He then took the scroll from him and handed him the crew list he had just prepared and in a commanding tone he ordered Zasfal to assemble the men on the list at once. Zasfal turned and left at once to carry out his orders.

As Zasfal walked among the crew gathering together the men on Ghurdan's list he noted that his name was not among then. His face screwed up with anger, He defiantly wanted to be included in this mission,.He knew how much his reputation would increase on his return if they were successful and he did not doubt that they would return. After all they would be travelling with the most notorious and feared Corsair in all of Harad along with fifteen of his strongest and most loyal men.

Once he had gather together all the men on the list he went back to Ghurdan's cabin. He knocked hard on the strong black wooden door "come" was the harsh reply from the other side, stepping inside Zasfal informed Ghurdan that the men were assembled. As Ghurdan got up to leave he saw that Zasfal still stood before him. "What is it" he growled impatiently "Sir, I wish to be included in this mission" he replied gritting his teeth waiting for the mans sneering refusal, but it never came. "Granted" was the captains curt reply, as he walk calmly passed the first mate and exited the cabin to address the gathered men.

A satisfied evil grin was on Ghurdan's face as he left his cabin, he had hope that his ambitious first mate would insist on coming along and he also knew that leaving the young mans name from the list would have annoyed him greatly.

Ghurdan walked up and down the line of men that stood to attention before him, he nodded his head pleased with his choices, then he stood before them and in a loud and commanding voice he began.... "As you are all aware the war has begun and so we are once again being called into the service of our Dark Lord! We are to escort the Priestess Sevora and a few other noted priests, as they spread the word of our lord to the infidel nomadic tribes of the outlands, converting the faithful and eliminating those who dare to resist." at the last words a flash of lust cross his dark eyes. He watched as his men exchanged excited glances Then he continued "You have one hour to make ready and be back here, Dismissed!"

Ghurdan then returned to his cabin to Finnish packing his own gear. Before the hour was up Zasfal had come and reported that the crew where ready to leave. Ghurdan put on his red head scarf and lifted his spear then went out to again inspect his men.

The fifteen well muscled dark skinned men were all clad in black breeches, red opened waistcoats and wore red head scarves. Every man also carried a long black shafted spear much like the one Ghurdan himself carried, they also each carried a sword of their own choosing and a black handled belt knife. As Ghurdan approached, they put their packs on their backs and quickly lined up into five lines of three and awaited their captains order to move out.

Ghurdan took his place at the head of his men beside his already waiting first mate, "Well, Zasfal are you ready to die for your god" he teased, the young man just grunted. Ghurdan then raised his hand in the air and shouted "To the citadel". As he marched his small army through the city he sneered at the people rushing to get out of they're path, and he could hear doors slamming closed as people hid behind them. Zasfal on the other hand was laughing feeding on the fear enjoying the intense feeling of power. Ghurdan noted the young mans lust and made a mental note to keep a close eye on his first mate to make sure he did not try to get over ambitious.

As they marched through the citadels gates to the court yard he was pleased to note that he was the first to arrive the other warriors that the message had mentioned were nowhere to be seen. He then reminded his men to remember were they where and that if they valued their life's they should do what ever the priests and priestesses ask of them. He kept them standing to attention as they waited for the others to arrive.

[Arien]

Dristi’s face was blank, and showed no emotion. A haze of smoke lingered in the air, clinging to her cloak, face and hair. She leaned on the hard chair and listened to what was being said. She did not know the reason for coming on this little escapade, why she had been chosen. She knew Sevora barely. She had seen and herd of her, no doubt that she had experienced the same with her. The woman seemed to think highly of herself, and she was. She was closer to the high priest than her, and Dristi envied her. But for some other reason, she also liked her she had a sense of evil clinging to her. For otherwise why had she been chosen. The other Priest, a man she did not know. Their were too many Priest and Priestess’ to count in this place.

"Does the Highest give permission for the Sister and Brother to speak?"

"Yes, they may speak."

Dristi waited for the other to make a comment but he with held so she decided to talk, “I know for what I am here,” her voice was clear in the room, but soft. “But why I am I here? Does apart of me need to be on this…”she paused, and looked at Sevora cynically, “…this quest? In what way would my skills be needed? Do not get me wrong, I am truly honoured to be chosen and I will obey, but all I want to know is why, and I will bother you no more.”

[piosenniel]

The family sat contentedly around the small cooking fire. Breakfast was over, the bowls of thick porridge sprinkled with groundnuts were wiped clean with fingers, then scoured thoroughly with sand. A few drops of precious water were spent sluicing the sand away, and collected in a separate bowl.

Jamílah and her daughters took the precious liquid to where the great, old baobab tree grew at the edge of their encampment. Qamar whispered a few words over the bowl, dropping in a pinch of the grains they had eaten that morning. Qirfah did the same, handing the bowl at last to Jamílah. She dipped the fingers of her right hand into the water, and giving thanks for food that day, poured the water and the grains of food and sand it carried into the spreading roots of the great tree.

The baobab was the symbol for their tribe. A mighty tree that served all who asked of it. From its bark, rope was woven, strings for fishing nets and snares made, baskets woven, and even the rugs used for sitting on came from it. Cooking oil was pressed from the seeds of its fruits, and medicines and food got from its leaves and seeds. Graced with pendulous, scented white flowers it was a mother to all who sought shelter beneath its wild crown, birds, beast, and humans alike.

Layla, Qirfah’s daughter, came skipping up to where the older women had gathered, the other children following in her wake. ‘Mama!’ she cried, pointing excitedly to the great oblong fruit that hung down from the branches. She hopped from foot to foot as Qirfah pulled out her small knife and cut one down for them to share. The fruit was sweet and moist, and the children’s eyes glowed with delight as the pieces were handed round.

Beneath the happy sounds of children eating and the sounds of birds calling to one another in the upper branches of the tree, Jamílah heard a discordant sound, a darker, derisive laughter hidden in the tall grasses near the edges of the tree. She narrowed her eyes, focusing on the direction from where the snickering came.

There, crouched down in the shadows of the grass, were two or three of the older youth, their faces caught in a sneer at the scene before them. One of them, seeing she had spied them out, spit on the ground beside him, his eyes rising afterward to challenge hers.

She raised her chin to him, her face a mask of casual indifference, and mouthed a new day’s blessing at him. He raised his hand as if to ward it off, as he and his two companions slunk off, the sounds of their leaving whispering after them like the quick feet of small scorpions skittering over the sand.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

“So, what is it you’re suggesting?” Nasir questioned, tone frustrated and annoyed. He had woken up soon after Jasara and Khasia had, and had gone to join his leader by the stream. The two were talking furiously about current situations and relations with the elders of the tribe, arguing back and forth and bouncing ideas off each other.

“We need to rebel. We need to show them we are strong. An outright revolt. Something they will never forget,” Jasara reiterated. Nasir stared at her blankly, his black eyes emotionless in the morning sun. Nasir had always been a perfectionist, ever since Jasara had known him. He wouldn’t try his luck or take a risk; for fear that his luck would fall just short. The only time something risky took place was if Jasara thought it was truly necessary, otherwise Nasir would try and talk her out of it or keep it from happening altogether.

“Did...did you have a vision?” Nasir asked Jasara shakily. The only reason some of the young knew about Jasara’s visions and voices was because Khasia had foolishly told everyone she had come in contact with after Jasara’s first prediction. Few knew, however, that this nagging, cold, bitter voice was the major source of Jasara’s radical ideas. Jasara bit her lip, considering how she should answer Nasir. A slight nod was all she could manage.

Convince him…the only way the elders will know and recognize your true strength is if you show them. There it was again. That voice, the voice that made Jasara’s blood run cold even in the heat of the dry grassland sun.

“We don’t have enough children,” said a voice from behind the pair. Khasia, Jasara’s sister, stood behind them, inhaling deeply; she had probably just come from her morning run. Jasara did not particularly care for her younger sister, the sixteen-year olds calm, serene shell made Jasara nervous. The girl was trouble, anyways, for she was never taking orders unless she wanted to. Besides, Jasara hated when Khasia was right about something.

Ask Nasir where your little spy boy is, the deathly whisper commanded. Jasara nodded numbly to herself, and looked up at Nasir. “Where is Rijal?” Jasara asked absently, hoping and wondering if Khasia or Nasir could hear the seemingly booming voice that pounded in Jasara’s mind. As if by magic, the pounding of little feet soon became audible on the horizon, and soon the young boy Rijal became visible. Khasia and Nasir had turned to look, and when they saw the boy, they confusedly turned their gazes to Jasara, who shrugged simply. Rijal jogged up, and finally took a stop next to the gathered young.

“The Painted Sand Tribe is camped not to far east of here,” said Rijal, panting. Rijal, if not a good spy, was also quite useful to gather trivial information without gaining suspicion. Jasara grinned wickedly at the announcement. Recruits from other tribes were not that hard to find…

“Perfect,” murmured both Jasara and the voice simultaneously.

[ June 09, 2003: Message edited by: Aylwen Dreamsong ]

[Ealasaid]

With his tribe's encampment still a good half day's ride to the south, Ahmad made the reluctant decision to stop for a few hours' rest. He and Yusef had ridden through the night and well into the next morning. The exhausted horses had begun to stumble and, rather than risk serious injury to himself or Yusef from a fall, Ahmad reined his horse to an abrupt halt. Yusef galloped past, then, seeing Ahmad had not followed brought his horse around and trotted back to where Ahmad had dismounted.

"Trouble?" Yusef asked, lowering the end of his head shawl to reveal his bearded face.

Ahmad shook his head. "No trouble yet. The horses are tired. They should rest."

Yusef's eyes flicked toward the southern horizon. "We could be there by dusk."

"The horses will go lame or worse."

"The horses! The horses!" echoed Yusef in a mocking tone. "Are you more worried for your livestock than you are for your family?"

Ahmad shot him a cold look. "You may break your neck and kill your horse if you choose," he said calmly. "But you take your own horse, not one of the others. As for me, I will give the tribe's horses a few hours rest and, the gods be willing, arrive in camp before dawn with mine own self and my charges in tact. You may do as you will."

Yusef responded with an icy, narrow stare. Then he dismounted. "You mock me," he said angrily. "I was only thinking for the safety of your sister who is soon to be my wife."

"You said yourself that she is safe for the moment." Ahmad had already begun to unsaddle his horse. "Is she or isn't she?"

Yusef did not answer. Instead, he, too, began to unsaddle his horse, but he did it quickly with an angry, jerky motion that Ahmad watched warily from the corners of his eyes. Yusef dropped his intricately tooled leather saddle to the ground and sat back against it to watch as Ahmad set up the tethers for the eight horses. He pulled a water skin from the side of his saddle and took a long drink, his eyes never leaving Ahmad's back. To think,, Ahmad said to himself, feeling the stab of Yusef's stare between his shoulder blades like a dagger. This man is marrying my sister. The first time he beats her, he is a dead man.

When Ahmad turned back around, there was a conciliatory smile on Yusef's face. "On the way out yesterday morning, I passed the Baobabs' encampment," Yusef said casually. "You have a woman amongst the Baobab, don't you?"

Ahmad felt a sharp jolt of pain. When he looked again at Yusef, he saw that the smile had gone malicious. "I have no one amongst the Baobab," he answered quietly. "Only a few acquaintances."

"Oh, my mistake." Yusef stifled a belch and put the water skin aside, but he looked pleased.

Ahmad turned his face away and began to busy himself with removing the pack from the packhorse. What he had had with Qirfah of the Bush Lizard clan was not something he cared to discuss with Yusef. It had been a casual flirtation that had gone too far. It had ended badly, but not as badly as it might have if anyone other than her mother Jamilah had discovered it. After all, Qirfah had already been married to another man. According to the customs of Ahmad's tribe, had he known of the flirtations, Qirfah's husband would have had every right to kill her. Fortunately, the husband had never found out. Instead, Jamilah had sternly banished Ahmad from ever laying eyes on her daughter again. For Qirfah's protection, Ahmad had done as he was told, but he still dreamed of Qirfah at night, her shining black hair and the soft brown pools of her eyes. It pained him to know that she should be so close, yet so far out of his reach. Maybe that was the real reason why he had been sent away. His mother would have known that the Baobab would be camping there again this season. She and Jamilah were friends.

[ June 09, 2003: Message edited by: Ealasaid ]

[Lyra Greenleaf]

Sammael glanced around at his travelling companions, assuming they had all arrived. There were a few men standing around, cleaning their weapons or looking bored, as well as… Sammael nudged Damodred and grinned. Fifteen men dressed identically in red and black, trying to look fierce.
“Do you think they’re the entertainment?” Sammael asked cheerfully.
Damodred was rubbing his back and grousing, but his face cracked a smile.
“Come on old man! Shall we ask the acrobats for a performance? Perhaps they can teach you.” Sammael laughed loudly at his own joke, and most of the other occupants of the small round courtyard stared at him. There was little room for laughter in the Dark Citadel.
“I am sorry for disturbing you, friends” Sammael said with an exaggerated bow and a mockery of a penitent face. “I am just the warm up act”
With a grin he winked at one of the man in red-and-black, who met his eyes stonily.

Unheeding Sammael continued to appraise the others. Suddenly his smile dropped. There were two women, dressed up like warriors and bristling with weapons. One seemed rather old and leathery looking, but the other had big dark eyes. With a grin Sammael went over to her.
“Ah” he said “So you’re the real entertainment”
The woman slowly turned her eyes to face him. They might have been big and dark, but they were empty. They almost made Sammael want to shiver. But the worst thing was that his smile had appeared to have no effect on her.

“I am not here for entertainment” she said coldly “and neither should you be. We are here to expand our territory and influence.”
Sammael affected a shocked face.
“I thought we were here for the exotic tribal women? Of course, I would not judge you for that.”
She just kept staring at him with an impassive face. It was very discomfiting.
“We are here to fight” she said unemotionally.
Sammael’s smile fell away. She wasn’t going to make this easy.
“Well that’s the problem. If you’re here to fight then we men have to protect you and that just makes our lives a bit harder. I would not argue if you wished to come along for the sport, but as it is can you not go find yourself a husband?”
Sammael was shocked to see that the woman’s back went stiff at the word husband. Interesting, he thought. Jilted perhaps. She will take some watching.

Shaking his head he returned to Damodred.
“This should be amusing, old man” he said with a grin as he clapped his companion on the back.

[piosenniel]

Qirfah sat in front of her tent carefully stripping thin strands from the long section of baobab bark she had cut from the tree that morning. Her sister, Qamar, sat a little way off at the small fire, stirring the contents of the large iron pot balanced over the coals on rocks. The children, played hunter and hunted in the grasses just beyond the fire, and she could hear the little growls of ‘lions’ as they stalked the ‘unsuspecting hunter’ with his blunt spear.

‘A little more of that ground up beetle shell, Mother.’ Qamar pulled one of the stringy strands of bark from the bubbling concoction in the pot, holding it up for general inspection. ‘Not quite purple enough yet. I think I put in too much of the blue plant.’

Jamílah ground a pinch of the tiny dried shells in the stone mortar and scraped them into the hot liquid. ‘That should do it,’ she said, sluicing out the mortar with a little water and setting it in the sun to dry.

It was a warm morning and the women were glad to be in the shade of a small scrub tree as they worked. Once done with their dyeing of the strands, they would hang them on the low-lying branches to dry and then weave them into the beautiful baskets for which the women of their tribe were famous. At their previous encampment, they had been able to secure a large supply of the dye stuffs they needed for the vibrant colors that they used. And now they were putting them to good use.

Besides the baskets for normal, every day use, each clan had their specialty. Their clan, the Bush Lizard, made elaborately designed large, long carry baskets with woven head bands to secure them along the bearer’s brow and down the back as they traveled from place to place. They were also famous for the beautiful woven baskets meant to cradle babies.

‘We will have plenty of strands for our cradles, Mother.’ Qamar looked thoughtfully at her older sister. ‘Enough I think for plentiful trading. And enough to make you a new one, Qirfah.’ She grinned at her sister. ‘When will you and Husam have another little one, and make me an auntie again?!’

‘Ah, well . . . who can tell?’ Qirfah turned the question deftly aside as she held up the pile of strands she had done. ‘Shall I cut another section of bark, or will this be enough, Mother.’

Jamílah looked critically at the mound of strands and proclaimed it enough. ‘Do the greens and the yellows next, you two. I think we have enough of the reds and blues and purples. Then hang them up to dry and we’ll begin the weaving tomorrow.’ She rose from her mat and went into her tent, coming out a few moments later with the large hinged basket that held her medicinal herbs. ‘Hmmm,’ she murmured to herself, fingering the twists of powders in their parchment papers and the little stacks of dried leaves and roots. ‘I hope she has gotten some of the willow bark powder from the traders in the north, and that little root from the eastern mountains. I will bring her one of my own cradles for her daughter soon to be wed.’

Qirfah listened closely as her mother named off her inventory of healing herbs, a sudden flame of hope flickering within. Her hands, normally steady, shook a little as she divided the pile of strands into two equal groups. She kept quiet, her eyes fixed on the two growing piles as if they were the whole world to her.

Qamar’s eyes narrowed at her sister’s studied indifference to her mother’s mention of trading herbs and an impending wedding. She stirred the pot of brilliant purple strands thoughtfully, thinking about what her husband had mentioned that morning on his return from the spring.

The Painted Sands are near and Mother is going to see Briellah. That means Ahmad is near, too near. She stole a glance at her sister, studying her tense form. She will bear close watching.

Qamar drew a deep breath, exhaling it slowly, and looked to the east.

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

Khasia's eye's were narrowed as she stared at her sister and her little pawn, Nasir. What was Jasara suggesting? A split in the tribe and there would not be enough food for all, there wouldn't be enough hunters or enough people to gather the things they used to make items for trade. "We can't Jasara." she said, flatly. Khasia loved it when she was indisputably right, and Jasara seldom gave her an opportunity.

Rijal's arrival was untimely and unwelcome, however, and Khasia's self-satisfied smile faded at his news. The Painted Sand Tribe? Jasara's sudden look of glee made Khasia's stomach lurch. She looked down at her dusty toes, if more rebels could be recruited from the other clan, Khasia mused thoughtfully. Perhaps it could be done.

Leaving her sister and Nasir by the stream, Khasia walked back toward their camp. Old Jamilah and her daughters were sitting beneath the largest tree, dyeing bark to weave baskets with. Jamilah infuriated Khasia. The girl twisted her face into a sneer as she passed them by, but the woman didn't look up, her deft fingers working the strips of bark. Khasia burned with anger, she demanded to be acknowledged, at least noticed! But Jamilah was unruffled as always, her face serene.

Stomping harder than necessary in her irrtation, Khasia returned to her meager stack of belongings. She had inteded to spend the hot morning weaving her own baskets, but after such a performance, decided she'd work on mending the children's clothes instead. Shoving aside a half finished skirt she was making for herself, undyed like everything Khasia wore, she reached for the stiff bone needle and a tunic of Rijal's. That boy was always squirming into some tight corner and tearing holes in his clothing. She held up the tunic. A gaping hole in the elbow needed fixing, Rijal's whole skinny arm would fit through the hole. A few others flitted by, tossing torn garments on her pile. Khasia sighed and gritted her teeth as she pushed the needle through the thin fabric of Rijal's sleeve.

Piosenniel's post

Jamílah looked up from her weaving as Khasia passed. She watched the girl walk stiff-shouldered past her, an air of studied indifference mixed with anger trailing in her wake.

Tsk! So angry the young ones are these days! she thought as her fingers wrapped the finishing edging on the cradle she had made to bring to Briellah. She had woven in the bush lizard motif around the edges of the hood that would shade the baby’s eyes. Smiling, she laid it aside, to sort through a few other baskets and herbs that she would bring with her.

The smile left her face as the image of a coiled green mamba came to her, its unmoving cold eyes looking directly into hers. Highly aggressive, its venom deadly, it was a creature to be treated with caution and great respect.

Her eyes flicked up, drawn to the figure of the small, slender girl sitting a short distance away. Her frizzy, dark haired head was bent to one side as she held up a small shirt ragged with wear. Sitting in front of her plain-cloth tent, Khasia plied her needle, her lips moving grimly with some unheard words.

The image of the snake and the tensely coiled muscles of the angry girl slid together in her mind. And she regarded the young woman carefully.

Laying aside her sorting for now, Jamílah rose from her mat and went into her tent. Poking among her weaving supplies, she picked out a large number of newly dyed fibers, binding each color in separate small bundles. Tying the lot together with a piece of twine, she walked thoughtfully over to where Khasia sat, her bone needle flying over the pile of mending.

‘Greetings, little sister,’ she said, squatting down in front of the young woman, giving the traditional greeting from a married female to an unmarried one. ‘We have been busy dyeing strips from the tree these past few days, and have more than we will need. The tree belongs to all, and I wish to share our bounty with the tribe. Already, I have given some to Qalb, and to Na’ar, and their daughters.’ She laid the bundle down in front of Khasia, pushing it closer to her with the tips of her fingers.

‘Your baskets are so beautifully woven, Khasia. It would be an honor to have this small offering grace them . . .’

[ June 12, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Durelin]

Sevora sat calmly in her seat, but her eyes were intent on Dristi, studying her every move, her every breath, searching for any sign...of anything. No sign appeared, and Sevora wasn't surprised. She would think very badly of any member of the Order if they could not even keep their thoughts and feelings conceiled. It was quite a simple thing, really. But sometimes...well, everyone slipped up at one point, and that one point was what Sevora did not want to miss.

"...all I want to know is why, and I will bother you no more."

"A simple thing, you ask, Priestess Dristi." Sevora rose from her seat and began sharply almost immediately after Dristi's words, seeming to cut her off. She softened her voice before continuing, which turned it into a bland drawl. "Many times those are the most important, the basis of all we must know. But," she paused, giving the word a greater affect.

Her eyes bore into the other Priestess. "But, I do not see the importance in knowing why you were chosen. It is a childish thing, like you want to hear appraising words, like you want to hear that it was the greatness of your skill and dedication that brought you into this hall."

Her voice was still a drawl, emotionless. Her face showed nothing, her eyes burning only with their usual cold light. She was only slightly disgusted, at any rate. "You were chosen to take part in this mission in the Glory of the Sight because you were seen as fit for this duty as a member of the Order of the Eye, the Burning Sight. You need not know more."

Dristi showed no more emotion than Sevora knew she, herself, did, and she felt a bit of respect in that. She found anger to be the hardest emotion to keep under control, and the other Priestess was certainly bursting with the emotion, or she wasn't anything like what Sevora expected.

She turned her lifeless gaze to Naramarth. "Do you have any applicable questions, Priest Naramarth?"

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Jasara watched as Khasia stalked off, leaving her sister and Nasir by the creek. Jasara hated her sister’s attitude. Khasia never thought the ideas Jasara proclaimed would work, even when Jasara knew they would. Despite the fear the voice gave her, Jasara had a strange sort of trust in the voice. It led her to say the things she did. Jasara, under normal circumstances, would never have spoken up that pre-flood night if she had not trusted the voice.

“We should go, and even if we can’t convince anyone tonight, the Painted Sand Tribe will be camped there for a while,” continued Jasara after a long silence that had followed her sister’s leave. Nasir eyed Jasara warily and wearily, but in the end simply nodded his agreement.

“I have to go get my sword. Perhaps Najah should come too,” was all Nasir said as he and Jasara stood in unison. They made their way back towards where several of the young were just waking from their late sleep. Most of the young were already up and about doing chores. One of the young they passed by, Najah, was shuffling by with a bow in hand and quiver over her shoulder. She was directing a group of younger children to a clearing for a morning target practice.

“Wait! Najah!” Nasir called to the girl. Najah whirled around, and joined the duo. Nasir quickly explained the situation to her, and the girl told the other young to be ready when she came back. Jasara had remained silent, and the trio was soon on their way east towards the Painted Sand Tribe’s encampment. Before they left the ‘boundaries’ of their own tribe, they passed by Khasia, who was fervently stitching and repairing clothing.

“Khasia! Come along! We’re off for some fresh rebel meat!” cried Najah, and Jasara sighed when the archer called out for her sister. Najah was no doubt frightened to some degree of being so near to Jasara in such small numbers, especially with the stern Nasir. All of the children praised or listened to Jasara’s orders, but few could tolerate being so close to the ‘prophet’. At the calling, Khasia quickly threw down the torn and tattered skirt she had recently begun to stitch and ran up to join the group.

It had not been a long walk when the small group reached the back end of one of the outer tents of the encampment. The sun was high, and the ground under Jasara’s feet began to heat up as the girl wished she had remembered to wear her boots. People of the Painted Sand Tribe milled around, talking and walking and working from tent to tent and everywhere betwixt and between. Two girls walked particularly close to the gathered, hiding young from the Baobab Tribe, and Nasir called out to one.

“You! Girl, over here!” He cried. Jasara squinted her eyes against the sun and noted that the girl Nasir had beckoned could not have had much difference in age from Khasia or Najah. Her companion looked as if she were a few years older than Rijal, but younger than the first girl. Then again, Rijal was such a scrawny thing that the second girl might have even been the same age. The two girls stared blankly at the four at first, and the younger one mumbled something about being convinced to leave home without her kinsman escort before they made their way over to Jasara, Nasir, Najah, and Khasia.

[Nerindel]

Ghurdan stood in the shadow of one of the great black pillars that encircled the court yard, watching as other warriors and corsairs arrived. He wished not to reveal his presence until the priestess Sevora arrived, So he let Zasfal pace up and down impatiently in front of his men.

"Come on old man! shall we ask the acrobats for a performance" he heard a sickly cheerful young man tell his older companion, he followed their gaze to his crew, he saw Zasfal hand grip tightly about the hilt of his curved sword. His young first mate was clearly angered by the other mans jest, The uniforms were his doing and he saw the mans jest as a great insult, but even in his anger he still had the presence of mind to seek his captains permission before acting.

Ghurdan scowled at the young man and shook his head, He knew full well the penalty for angering the Priestess. His eyes narrowed as he thought of a new use for Zasfal. He watched as the two Warriors walk away clearly unaware of the events that had passed between Zasfal and his Captain.

"Zasfal!" Ghurdan hissed, the young man walk over confidently, "Yes, sir" he said bowing slightly. "I want you to keep an eye on that young warrior!" Zasfal grinned wickedly as has hand moved towards his daggers. "No!" Ghurdan scolded, he then told Zasfal what he required of him. The young man's grin widened further and he nodded, admiring his captains way of thinking. "Now!" Ghurdan said sharply.

The young man lowered his head and as he raised it, his wicked persona was replaced with that of a cheerful and friendly young dandy, a persona he used often to gather information for his captain. Ghurdan simply nodded his head, showing no emotion at all to the man's sudden change in demeanour. Without replying Zasfal walked of to carry out his captains orders, Ghurdan noted the slight skip in his step as he walked, it added to the new persona. The young mans ability to take on any persona was the main reason why Ghurdan kept him alive.

As he watched Zasfal mingle with the gathered warriors, he thoughtfully stroked the scar on his face recounting his last encounter with The Red Flame. The woman's restrain on her emotions was impressive. Anger was one emotion that he himself could not control and he didn't try as he found it a strength rather than a weakness especially in battle.

His thoughts turned once more to the young warrior and his older companion, he would enjoy putting the young whelp in his place during their journey and if his friend intervened all the better. His eyes narrowing as he watched Zasfal introduce himself to the two men.

"Good day to you all" Zasfal said bowing dramatically. "My name is Zasfal, I answer the call of my god!" he announced loud enough that all about could hear, then grinning boyishly he winked at the female warrior that the pair had been conversing with and whispered "And the notoriety it may bring." The young female warrior clearly didn't approve, shrugging he turned to the two male warriors, "And you are" he asked smiling like a young lad who naively believed this journey would bring him respect and notoriety.

[arelendil]

"Do you have any applicable questions, Priest Naramarth?"

Naramarth's attention had not moved from the priestess since she had welcomed him, though he did not show it. He stood up to answer the priestess.

"No, your greatness." His eyes dark and expressionless. "I know my duty and i follow the eye's command without question. His will is my deed." Naramarth bowed. He was all too used to the way one had to act in this chamber but emotions were best worn inwards and Naramarth knew it. Nothing could show but complete devotion to the dark power.

Naramarth loved this room like no other. it smelt different, sickly sweet and tangy. the fires and smoke were always moving. this was the only room where there was even a hint of a breeze.

Naramarth licked his lips, savouring the taste. Then he bowed and returned to his motionless silence.

[Arien]

How dare she humiliate her in front of them? Childish? All she wanted to know is why she was being dragged along to convert a stupid bunch of tribesmen. It’s not like they are a trained army! In fact she would enjoy staying here and training more priests. She would not say anything, not in front of the high priest at least, less she wanted to be banished. She was lucky to be received this time and her luck would not be so great now.

"No, your greatness. I know my duty and I follow the eye's command without question. His will is my deed." The other priest had said. Dristi’s rage built inside, he was trying to suck up to them, making himself more loyal than her. But he wasn’t, not to the eye.

She sat in silence and waited till Sevora gave them their next command, but oh she would pay for what she just put Dristi through. Childish?

[Lyra Greenleaf]

"Good day to you all"
Sammael turned at the interruption to see a young man with brown hair make a bow more suited to royalty. He exchanged glances with Damodred.
"My name is Zasfal," the man continued "I answer the call of my god! And the notoriety it may bring. And you are?"

Sammael grinned. "My name is Sammael, the old man is Damodred and unfortunately for the pair of us, this woman dislikes men too much to part with her name. Alas, I also doubt we will gain much noteriety on this journey, we only go to convert Heathens to the true path."
Zasfal returned the smile, and the two men began to talk idly. Damodred watched with a sneer, and the woman melted away into the shadow of a large black pillar.

After a while Damodred pulled Sammael away by the shoulder, leaving Zasfal half way through a sentence. Sammael looked at him and shrugged, internally thinking that he looked rather like a fish with his mouth gaping so.
"Well Damodred?" he asked. "What is so urgent, may I enquire. Only if you've quite finished dragging me around like a child. I'm surprised you didn't choose to lead me by my ear."
"If you didn't act like a child..." Damodred said absently, then looked over his shoulder at Zasfal who was now leaning on the wall staring at them. "There's something not right about him" Damodred said finally. "He's not honest"

Sammael alughed aloud. "Of course he's not! Are you? I'm not."
"Laugh all you like." Damodred said firmly, not offended. "That man is trouble. And he was standing with the crew in red and black when we first walked in"
"Standing by them, no doubt." Sammael said quietly. "If it makes you feel better then reassure yourself that Zasfal is merely someone I can talk to, not a friend. He is too..." Sammael paused, thinking. "He is too like me for anything else. He will be driving me mad within a day."

Without another word Sammael turned and walked back to where he had left Zasfal. Damodred followed with a grim face.
"Sorry about that." Sammael said with an easy smile. "Damodred thought there was something fishy about you. I told him it was probably because you had come from the harbour. He wasn't brought up well enough to know such personal comments were rude. Now, what were we talking about...?"

[ June 15, 2003: Message edited by: Lyra Greenleaf ]

[piosenniel]

‘Mami, look!’ cried Ajdal, his fat baby fingers reaching up to brush the colored strands that hung from the low branches of the tree as he ran beneath them. ‘Look, look!’ his sister Naar, took up the cry, her arms outstretched like a great bird flying. ‘We are touching the rainbow!’ Little fingers riffled through the nearly dried strands, sent them quivering in hued delight. Ashum, clapped his chubby baby hands together, laughing at the colors shimmering in the bright sun.

Qamar rested in the shade of a rocky overhang, her back against the cool rock, and watched her children at play. She checked them frequently, shading her eyes against the sun to make sure they kept in sight. There were vague stirrings of uneasiness in the tribe of late, and there were some young ones she did not trust. Shifty-eyed, disrespectful. Their attention she noted was often on the young children. Like jackals she thought, waiting to pick off the weaker. She had already spoken to her mother about these vague feelings of hers, and the she, too, had voiced the same uneasiness. Her mother had promised to speak of it to the other tribal elders, and Qamar wondered if she had done so yet.

Layla and Ihab came running from their tent, Qirfah following close behind. Ihab pulled at his mother’s skirts, and she crouched down to speak with him as Laylah went laughing to join her cousins among the multicolored streamers. She waved gaily at her auntie, drawing Qirfah’s attention to the three of them.

Perhaps it was a trick of the sun as it caught the tableau of mother and son in profile, or her suspicious side had been aroused, but the sight of those two, their heads bent together laughing made her sit up with a gasp of surprise. His small dark eyes were fixed on his mother’s face and his long, thick lashes brushed his cheeks, when he blinked, in a way that niggled at the back of her mind. And his mouth, the curve of his lips, from the side as he smiled seemed familiar . . .

Qirfah stood, waving her son off to his playmates, then came to sit by her sister. Her countenance was thoughtful as she gathered her skirts and sat down, as if she were sorting out the many thoughts in her mind, seeking the best way to bring them out.

Qamar sat silently, pretending to watch the children at play, her eyes sliding often to regard the storm of thoughts and feelings that played across her sister’s face. She held her breath, fearing what Qirfah might want of her. Her eyes flicked once again to the children.

Oh, please, let it not be so . . .

[ June 24, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

Khasia looked at the bundle of fibers that Jamilah was holding out to her. Though she hated to admit it, the dyes that Jamilah and her daughers used were much better than hers. She looked longingly at the deep blues and greens which would work perfectly into the border of a large storage basket she was working on. The scarlet could be used for any number of projects, but best of all were the pale yellows, which would be perfect for the patterns on the cradle she planned to start work on next. Looking around to see if any of her peers were watching, Khasia reached out tentatively and took the bundle from Jamilah.

"Thank you." She looked up at the woman as she spoke. "I will enjoy using these in my work." Khasia purposefully did not mention honor, and thought that probably Jamilah noticed the omission. However, she didn't mention it, and Khasia turned to stow the bundle in the large covered pot where she kept her other materials. Several unfinished baskets were scattered in the area, all woven expertly in geometric patterns unlike the more organic shapes used by most of the tribe-members.

Jamilah reached out one hand and touched a palm sized basket woven in deep purples and blues. "This is lovely, Khasia." She said, turning it in her hand and running her fingers over the tiny knob on the lid. Khasia smiled, she was proud of that basket, the tiny detail work had been difficult and she had spent many hours perfecting the curve of the lid.

"I made one the last time the traders came. They paid well for it. The women of Umbar use them to store jewels in, I think." She took back the basket, and placed it carefully on the stack with the others. Jamilah nodded, still looking at the small basket. Slightly irritated at her visitor's extended stay, Khasia moved restlessly, picking up her bone needle again, and stitching rapidly down the side of a torn skirt.

Jamilah rose, seemingly taking the hint, but before she went she fixed Khasia with her eyes. "It is a pleasure to work with you." Khasia stabbed her needle into the fabric with renewed force. How was she to answer that one? Of course working with the old healer brought her no pleasure, but the gifts and compliments she had brought did.

"Khasia! Come on!" The cry came from where Nasir, Jasara, and Najah stood with gleeful looks on all their faces. Khasia looked up quikly, and then turned to Jamilah.

"I should go. My sister needs me." Without waiting for a reply she tossed the skirt she was mending onto the heap with the other clothes and ran in the direction of Jasara and her group.

[Helkahothion]

Thorgom woke up. He had overslept again and was late. He looked over the top of his feet and saw the light coming in his tent. He got up and dropped back on his bed again. He was in no mood to get up. But work had to be done. The wood was almost gone, and food stocks were running low. He made a second attempt to get up and succeeded. He stumbled to the tub with water and plunched his head in. His hair was soaking wet and he wrangled it out above the tub to prevent his tent from turning into a puddle.
He went over to the chair in the corner and took his clothes up. He clapped the dust of that was gathering on the shoulders and pulled them on his body. His pants was soon hanging loosely from his waist.

As he walked outside, he squinted his eyes against the light. He immediately took his axes and armed himself. The wood was not everywhere, so after a little searching, he had chopped enough and went to look for some food. Not many animals where around at this time. He had to look very good to find something. Finally it was there: A dear. Thorgom took on of his throwing axes and sneaked up to the dear. When he was about 8 feet away and just a bush between them, the axe flew trough the air. It struck the neck and the dear was dead at the moment of impact. Thorgom smiled pleased and went over to retrieve the axe.
He heaved the dear on his shoulders and bound it's feet together. He went back to the camp with a broad smile on his face.

[Durelin]

Sevora gave Naramarth a small smile. A smile or a smirk, he could take it as he wished. What fools had she chosen for this? The man was at least attempting to be honey-tongued. She would find out soon whether he actually was so or not. She suspected not, since winged words didn't get you very far in the Citadel. The man wouldn't have had such a reputation or any sort of position at all. Fools? Or just 'cloudy-headed' from the presence of the High Priest? She had to suppress a real smile because of that thought. At least she was in command of the two presently and for quite a while into the future days. Of course, they would never be equals, Sevora was superior to many and had been for quite some time. She constantly used this superiority to her advantage. This trip would be routine, if pleasant.

"Thank you Priest Naramarth, Priestess Dristi."

And yet...she did have some kind of respect for them. Dristi veiled her anger well. They were like Sevora, if not very much.

"Wisest of the Order of Sight," she began, turning to the High Priest with a low bow. "We, the Children of the Sight, are ready to serve the Eye without question, without hesitation, and with all our bodies, minds, and souls. Our lives matter not."

The High Priest gave her a small nod and a friendly smile, most unseeming on that pale, drawn face, all coldness and severity. His eyes still burned with a strange heated light, cold yet searing hot. To Sevora the gaze felt...good. Right. The High Priest turned to the Keeper sitting next to him. "Keeper Asmodion, you may mark them and give them the blessings."

At these words, each of the Priest and Priestesses drew back his or her sleeves on the right arm. Sevora was not close enough see whether the others had been a part of this ritual before, but all of the Order knew the precedings. Meanwhile, Asmodion pulled out a long curved knife from a locked compatment in his chair. The High Priest brought out a small bowl of gnarled wood and his own knife, identical the the Keeper's. First the Keeper came to Sevora, and she held out her arm, staring at the man, matching his coldness. Using the tip of the curve, Asmodion ran the blade slowly down Sevora's arm, next to a long scar. it was from the same blade. Seconds went by which seemed like minutes. The man was good at what he did, but members of the Order were not to be effected. Sevora did not move a muscle, but kept them relaxed. Really, this was nothing, and that was the way it should be.

The blood trickled down her arm, and Sevora watched it. She couldn't explain the feeling she had at that sight, but it was so wonderful, so full of pleasure! She could stare at such for eternity and never grow weary, she was sure! But movement from the Keeper brought her back to reality. He caught several drops on his finger, then placed it just below Sevora's right eye. Pulling his finger down, he smeared the blood in a line three quarters of the way down her cheek. Catching a few more drops of her blood, he did the same below the left eye. Then Asmodion pulled down Sevora's sleeves again and turned to the High Priest.

The Highest One had pulled back his own sleeves, revealing skin that seemed striped. All those lines were scars, some were still red and puffy, done recently for this ritual. Picking an area with all healed scars, the man sliced down his arm in the same way as the Keeper. They were both practiced with this, being in their positions for many years. He did it just as slowly too, and to himself. But then, how hard was it? Sevora was sure she would have no problem slicing her own arm, it was only her arm, of course, and it was in service of the Eye. What better thing to do, anyway? She could watch the trickling, then, the sweet honey of life, so beautifully read. She closed her eyes, smiling a real smile, then snapped her eyes open. Her face went blank again, all in an instant. She had to watch herself.

The High Priest now picked up the wooden bowl again, and placed it under his arm. For a few long moments, everyone watched, standing motionless, as the blood was caught. The precious blood of knowledge. Then he handed it to Asmodion, who placed it in Sevora's outreached hands. She cradled it in her palms, staring at it for a moment, smiling a real smile for the second time in only moments, and then put the cup to her lips. She took one long swallow, then handed the bowl back to the Keeper. Licking her lips, she savored the taste. It was so sweet, better than she had ever remembered. And she knew it held so much. It held so much knowledge and power, giving you a deep connection with the Eye. It fried her blood and seared her bones, it made her stomach freeze, her fingers numb. The painful pleasure was overwhelming. She smiled openly and couldn't help but tremble. She did her best to stifle a sigh, but air still passed between her lips with a small hiss. Why hold it in? came a whisper in her mind, cold and hoarse. It's sound only increased the tingling, burning, and freezing all throughout Sevora's body. Why hold it in? the voice repeated. Sevora threw back her head and let a long, wheezing laugh. It was the first time she had laughed in three years. Pleasure was a weak word.

[piosenniel]

Jamilah watched with interest as Khasia ran off. There had been that brief moment when a spark of light shone through, when the girl’s spirit had shown itself in her eyes. But then those others had called her away, and the shadow had fallen over her features once again.

Qamar had been right in her estimation of these young ones. Something had infected them, something dark. Absentmindedly, Jamilah rubbed the moon tattoo on her left hand, wondering what medicine she knew might prove useful against this strange ailment of the spirit. It was a puzzle to her. More insidious than the usual complaints she dealt with. She sifted through her memories, finding nothing with which to compare it. This was such a deep sickness, something that rent the very fabric of the world she knew.

In the distance she could see her daughters as they sat in the shade watching their children play beneath the branches of the baobab. And scattered about, hands bent to the completion their daily tasks were the other families of the tribe. Strong, healthy roots sent up healthy shoots.

An old story came to mind, one from the dreamtime of her people, before time flowed only one way, from past to present:

The great, old baobab grew tall and strong, its branches reaching outward as the edges of the sky rested on it. The People walked tall and proud beneath it. Its fruits made them strong, its medicines kept them healthy. It clothed them. Gave them shelter. And so they thought it would be forever.

Then, one day, or so it was told, the sky tilted, the great tree canted to one side, tipping dangerously, crazily. The leaves curled and began to die. The fruit rotted just as it flowered. A great cry went up from the People and they were afraid, calling on the elders for help.

The elders gathered their strength and sang a song of healing as they walked slowly about the great tree. And there it was they found it, as they spiraled in, beneath a section of the roots. A fat, poisonous spider, dark as night, had sunk its fangs deep into the roots and sat sucking the lifeblood from the tree. Swollen, and slow, from its own greed it could not escape them. They raised their bush-knives with a great cry and fell upon it, killing it. But so deep was the hurt it had done the tree that the withered roots could not be made whole by time. And so the elders took up their knives once again. And this time they carefully cut away the damaged parts, peeling back a thin layer of healthy root.

They tended it carefully and in time the tree flourished and flowered. And the People, too, grew strong and walked tall beneath its branches, as did their children, and their children’s children.

Jamilah watched the distant figures of the young ones as they hurried to whatever dark plans lay in their minds. She wondered what shadowed creature had got hold of them. Would the elders be able to drive it from them? How many of them would they need to cut away from the tribe before the poison that they now bore became fatal to them all.

‘Tonight, after the evening meal,’ she said firmly to herself, ‘when the hunter’s moon is up. We will meet then.’

[ June 16, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Lyra Greenleaf]

Essenia leant against the wall, her face perfectly calm. These men, who were coming to help win lands and honour for Umbar, were fools. But then all men were to one extent or another.

One had mentioned marriage and a thick tendril of icy-cold fear had clutched at Essenia’s heart, the most emotion she had felt for a long time. He was just the sort of man who would associate with Taine, stupid and rich. His clothes were well made of rich fabrics. His companion who just stood and glowered seemed vaguely sensible, but no doubt on further inspection he would show the same weakness. The insolent one had dared to speak of women as a liability in war, when in fact it was men who let emotion rule them and men who were weak. Essenia dismissed all men from her mind. They were beneath her notice.

She had never felt the call of the Eye herself, although she practised the dark religion it meant little to her beyond a way to make Umbar great. One day they would take over the land of Gondor. They had had success against them a number of times, but then some weak fool of a man lost all that the corsairs had so carefully built up. It almost made Essenia angry, but in her heart she knew that the day would come when all the world would be part of Harad and then they would no longer need the Eye.

North was the way of rich pickings and true glory, but south would do for now. If they were ever to leave this accursed place, that was. Essenia felt the atmosphere soak into her bones as if from a detached point of view. More and more this happened, when her body let her down by feeling emotion, Essenia held herself distant and coldly watched until it faded. It was undoubtedly the best way to live.

[ June 16, 2003: Message edited by: Lyra Greenleaf ]

[piosenniel]

Families sat round their small fires, enjoying the last of the day. It was a glorious sunset over the long stretch of sandy plains that lay beyond the grasslands. The sun, caught for a moment, on the tips of a small rise of hills, blazed up, lighting the scrub that grew there like beacons set against the approaching night.

Jamílah left her family, the adults talking quietly among themselves as the children played hide and seek in the tall grass. She heard Qamar call out to hers, ‘Stay near! Where the fire lights your way!’

The other elders of the five clans had also risen, making their excuses to their families, as they hurried off to meet at a small clearing some distance away. They had all been worried about the changes they saw in the younger members, and they feared that the shadow they carried would spread to others, and bring great harm to the tribe.

In the growing darkness of oncoming night, beneath the bright, full moon they gathered – the Bush Lizard Clan, the Grey Parrot Clan, the Wild Dog clan, the Civet clan, and the Wind Scorpions. Four armed warriors stood at the cardinal points, keeping back any who would draw near.

Taking the talking stick in her hand, Jamílah rose to speak her concerns. Never one to mince her words when action was needed she began at what to her was the heart of the problem.

‘It is Jasara I wish to speak of first; Jasara and the shadow which looks out from her eyes . . .’

Jamílah recounted the first feelings of unease she had had many months ago when she threw the bones, as the day began, to augur the start of a new season. There had been dark meanings scattered on the dirt floor of her tent, shadows behind shadows. And though she had thrown them several times they had always come out in the same pattern. ‘Be wary!’ they warned her. And always, in some insidious form or another, she thought she saw a great eye, always open, always watching.

Then there had followed the incident of Jasara’s prediction and her growing number of followers among the young. Jamílah’s fears deepened as she watched them fall under the girl’s influence. She remembered when the then small group of young followers moved out of their families’ tents saying, “that they would rather ‘be eaten by the hungry beasts of the Eye than sleep in the way of the elders’.” Their casual mention, that feeling of acceptance by them, of the Eye made her look closer at them and at their actions.

The shadow has grown larger and stronger in Jasara,’ she continued, ‘and now it takes hold in the others. They are becoming ghosts to my eyes, uneasy spirits, unable to make their own decisions.’ She looked slowly and pointedly round the small circle, holding each clan leader with her gaze. ‘They are as ravenous as jackals, these shadow people. Stealing in to take the children that they can. Families can no longer let their children run free, safe among our tents. They hold them close now, their eyes are wary, their own spirits uneasy. And they are angry that this should be allowed to go on.’

Having said her piece, Jamílah stepped back to her seat, and sitting down, handed the talking-stick to the person on her right.

Ismat, of the Grey Parrot Clan, spoke next, voicing the same concerns as had been gone over by Jamílah, and listing the names of those young who had gone missing from their families. In turn, came the similar stories of what they had noted happening and which families had lost children from Asim, of the Wild Dog Clan and Hafsa, the Civet Clan leader.

Finally, the talking-stick was passed to Faruq, the oldest of the elders gathered. Hafsa leaned near him, offering her hand to him as she passed the stick, to help ease his old bones from their sitting position. He waved her off with a nod acknowledging her offer, and rose slowly to his feet.

‘I won’t go over again what each of you has said. The same complaints and the same fears have come from my clan also. There is something, though, which none of you have mentioned. And I think only because you have not visited yet with our newly arrived neighbors, The Painted Sand Tribe.’ Taking a small drink of water from the hollowed gourd offered up by Asim, he went on.

‘Late this afternoon I went to speak with Ishak ben Ishak, to set up a little trading fair between our tribes. He told me that young, ragged looking members of the Baobab had been sighted, wandering near their camp and even into it. They were dirty, he said, and gave no signs of respect to the adults they encountered. Not outwardly rude, just out of the ordinary for the sorts of behavior they have come to respect from our young ones. His wife, Briellah spoke up, too, as we talked. Saying that several of the women had told her how these ragged and dirty ones had called enticingly to their children, being even so bold as to come up to them as they stood with their parents, urging them to come with them. Disquieted, and angered at the boldness, several of the Painted Sand men drove the little group from their encampment.’

The other elders looked at him and shook their heads. Jamílah’s eyes narrowed at this news and she stood up. ‘It is bad enough that this problem eats like a canker at our own tribe. We cannot let it spread to theirs, too. One of us must speak with the shadow children and if they will not choose to come back to the tribal ways, then we must cut them off from us.’

There was a sharp intake of breath from Ismat, whose own young son had left the family tent and now slept with Jasara’s group. ‘I will speak to them,’ he offered, ‘though I cannot say it will do much good, for all I have spoken to him before.’ The others nodded their heads at him, murmuring words of support.

‘Let us consider what Jamílah, the Healer, has said,’ came the voice of Faruq, cutting through the mingled sounds of the group. ‘She would be the last to recommend the course of action she has suggested, I think – wanting instead to see how the rift could be healed. But she, like the rest of us, must put the needs of the tribe first.’ He laid down the talking-stick, saying they should meet again in two days time. ‘Talk to your friends and family, see what they are thinking, then come back on the appointed day. We will discuss it once more and make our final decision.’

The moon’s light had been obscured by a ragged passing cloud. Carefully, the Elders found their way back to their tents, their hearts heavy with what they might have to do. Jamílah lay awake a long time turning the meeting over in her mind.

‘Tomorrow,’ she thought to herself, ‘tomorrow I will gather up my herbs and medicines and seek out Briellah. There is more than one tribe at stake here. We must see what we can do.’

[Nerindel]

Zasfal watched with interest as Damodred pulled Sammael away like a young child who was late for supper. As the two men spoke he gathered his thought's, It had been clear in the older mans face that he held no trust towards him and so he shouldn't Zasfal thought. A slight sneer escaped but he immediately adjusted it back to the warm friendly smile of the dandy he was pretending to be.

"Sorry about that." Sammael said with an easy smile. "Damodred thought there was something fishy about you. I told him it was probably because you had come from the harbour. He wasn't brought up well enough to know such personal comments were rude. Now, what were we talking about...?"

Zasfal laughed at Sammael's jest, all the while thinking that he'd have to keep a closer eye on the older man, obviously the brains of the duo. He thought Sammael a fool when he had first seen him, but he was not only a fool but he was arrogant and cocky with it, his old friend had given him good advice and he had not taken it. Zasfal's grin widened and he went on ...

"I believe I was telling you about the time I drank Damrod 'the Mûmak' under the table, then spent the evening in the company of his two lovely daughters. I believe the huge man became a fixture to the Dark Sail inn, out cold for two days they say!" he said laughing heartily, many of the other warrior sneered at his laughter but he ignored them.

A mischievous glint crossed Zasfal's eyes as he spoke, the events he had just recounted had been a bit more messy than he had told then. Damrod had lost to him at a game of cards and Zasfal had unreasonably demanded his daughters as payment, the man had been furious but Zasfal had told him that he would not take his daughters if he could out drink him. Zasfal could still remember the huge mans laugh as he thought him a fool for suggesting that he could out drink 'the Mûmak' so called for the amount of liquid he could hold. But off course Zasfal had paid the innkeeper to fill his mug with watered down ale.

When Damrod had regained consciousness he had vowed to kill him and went from inn to inn enquiring about his where abouts, He also remembered Ghurdans fury at the attention being drawn to the fire spray, "Deal with it " Ghurdan had spat at him and Damrod had been found dead in an alley a week later, the cause of his death had been multiple blows to his head and face with a blunt weapon.


"And what of you! you and your protective friend must have a tale or two to tell?"....

*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*

Meanwhile Ghurdan was growing impatient at being kept waiting, he grabbed a passing Citadel Guard. The stunned guard immediately recognised the notorious captain, but before the man could speak Ghurdan spat at him in a commanding tone "Are we to be kept waiting till the Eye raises on a new day!" The young guard, obviously new to the citadel had managed to compose himself and answered confidently " The red flame and her chosen are preparing for their journey" " enough! when did the ceremony begin?" he broke in. The young man hesitated a little surprised that the sea captain knew of the ceremony "Em, about two hours ago."

"So we will be waiting for the eye to rise on a new day," he growled as he walked towards his crew. "At ease" He cried as he stood before them, He could feel the eyes of the other warriors in the courtyard on his back, but he ignored them and went on "It seems we are to have the honour of camping under the protection of the great eye." Murmurs swept through the crew as to why they were waiting, there was many rumours about what the rituals intaled ranging from human sacrifice to the drinking of their lords blood, Ghurdan walked emotionlessly among his men listening to their thoughts they were all loyal to the eye as was he, he was probably the only man not in the priest hood who knew of the rituals as he had seen many performed but not all some where reserved only for the priests and priestesses like the one he believed the priestess would be undergoing just now.

"You" he grunted at one of his younger men, the young man bolted straight and walked confidently up to his captain, "Aye sir" Ghurdan took a pouch from his pack and threw it to the young man saying "Go to The Dark Sail and tell the innkeeper that I want him to bring as many kegs as the coins can buy to the citadel. The young man grinned as he felt the weight of the coins he held in his hands, much ale would be flowing this evening he thought as he hurried off to the inn.

Ghurdan then turned, the eyes of the other warriors watching the Corsairs every move, he continued to ignore them and opening the large black doors of the citadel he went to the black and red marble hall of worship. the hall was practically empty a few low ranking priest were knelt in front of the Emblazoned eye that hung above the black alter. As Ghurdan knelt before the alter he felt a familiar hand on his shoulder, but he did not react to it.

"It is good to see you here my son" a soft but menacing voice whispered in his ear "You know my allegiances" he spat "I have a gift for you" she whisper, he did not need to look at her to see the twisted grin he knew she would be wearing. She pushed the elven woman that he had brought to the citadel that morning, "Your offering" she hissed.

Without any acknowledgement to his mother he took the woman to the front of the altar, the few priests that were there stood up and made ready to witness the offering. He slowly removed the elven woman's blindfold as she beheld the cruel captain again her grey almond shaped eyes widened with fear, he abruptly turned her to face the eye and ordered her to kneel, she shook her head defiantly so he forced her to her knees.

The old priestess that was his mother silently walked up to the alter and took a small wooden bowl and a red handled, black bladed ceremonial dagger from the alter, she handed the dagger to her son and held the bowl to the woman's fast beating chest. "Behold The Eye, The Master And Saviour Of all!!" she scream with delight as Ghurdan slowly ran the blade across the elven woman's white throat. He held the convulsing body of the elf while his mother filled the bowl with the blood of their victim. "Oh Great One Accept this Offering that we may do your bidding without fail" he said dropping the lifeless body of the elf to the floor.

The two younger priests that had witnessed the sacrifice hurried over to take the body away, bowing respectfully to the older priestess. Ghurdan looked up to see his mother looking at him with her emotionless eyes she pushed the bowl to his lips he drank, the warm sweet taste of the woman's life blood tingled through his body as though her life essence was flowing through him giving him the woman's strength and youth. As his mother took the bowl from his lips he looked at her cold dark eye and just for a fleeting moment he was sure he had seen pride. He grinned as she dipped her long pale finger into the blood and painted an eye on to his chest.

As she place the bowl and dagger back on the altar Ghurdan wickedly asked "You were not chosen for this mission ?" She turned on him sharply but she still held her composure as he knew she would "No I have more important matters to attend" "Yes in the high priests bed chamber, no doubt" he sneered at her, She slapped him hard across the face causing the side of his lip to bleed, he lifted his head licking the blood from the side of his mouth. "You are dismissed" she hissed, he nodded then went back to the courtyard.

He was not surprised to see that it was now starting to get dark and he had arrived back in time to see his men eagerly unloading a cart full of ale, many of the other warriors were also helping them and in the corner of the court yard he saw two tables laden with food, he cocked his eyebrow at the young man he had sent for the ale, but he only shrugged saying " The guards had brought it out!"

He then filled a mug and turning to all present he cried "to the Eye!"
"The Eye!" they all replied lifting their freshly filled mugs.

[ June 16, 2003: Message edited by: Nerindel ]

[Helkahothion]

Thorgom was still full of the dear. With a smirk on his face he was half-dreaming in front of his poor tent. He had some money left and could go to the Inn. But then again, he could also stay where he was and mind his own business. He had not been to the Inn for a long time and little news did he receive from the outside world. He was in doubt weather to go to the Inn or stay where he was. At the Inn, he had been in a fight a while ago. Not that he was afraid. But Thorgom always liked his rest.

After a while curiosity defeated reason and he broke up camp. The tent that had been standing sturdy in the ground was rolled up into a package that he now carried on his side. Little possessions did the man have. He needed little. The only thing that drove was lust for life and thirst for battle. But battles were nowhere to be found. Thorgom kicked the traces of the fire and took the bones in the package of the tent. They could always become a useful item.

The Inn was not a nice place for fair folks. The outside was as rotten as the inside and most of the visitors were no different. Thorgom hated the building, but some people he know staid there so it was one of the few places he could get company. He opened the door and peered into the room. It seemed that it was a busy day. Thorgom walked to a vacant table and dropped his tent with the bones next to him. He took his axe, since it did not sit very comfortable with a big axe on your back, placed it leaning against his chair. One of the servants of the Inn approached him to take his order.

"I'm fine. I have just eaten and only drink what I gather myself."

The waiter objected that he should at least order one thing from the map, but Thorgom tapped his axe and send the little man off. He sat back and took a bit of the dear meat he kept dried in his pack. Not sooner as the man was gone, another approached him.

"Can I sit here Thorgom?"

Thorgom signed the man to sit down. As he was busy getting in the chair, Thorgom carefully lowered his hand to his throwing axe. He was always careful with new people. He despised every form of contact with strangers anyway. But this man had been so polite to ask permission before prompting down on the chair. The man proved no threat and Thorgom was pleased by the company. But good news came him to mind. It appeared that there was a war starting. Thorgom's lust for battle was immediately burning like a bright flame. As the man kept talking on about things, he fished out the important parts.
It appeared that religious members of the dark lord where looking for followers. Thorgom would follow anyone if it would lead him into war. He blurted out a quick thanks and took his leave.

The road to the citadel was not very far as Thorgom remembered it. He took a quick pace, hoping he was still in time to join them. The ground shook under his massive feet and the throwing axes bungled to all sides. The axe on his back was tightly fastened and was one of the few things that was not being a nuisance. As he proceeded, he could see a vague form of the citadel up ahead. It was already night and as he approached, he saw that people were standing outside. Still catching his breath, he approached one of them. He grabbed the closest arm since he was too tired from running without pausing.

"My name is......Thorgom.....I would...like to.....speak with your......eh....leader...I hear you need people." The man stumbled.

[Ealasaid]

Ahmad had not meant to fall asleep. Not having slept in close to two days, his intention had been just to lie down for a minute or two of rest, but the darkness coupled with the soft whisper of the wind through the tall grass had lulled him into a light sleep. He lay on his side with his head pillowed on the seat of his saddle. His dagger lay sheathed on the soft earth under his hand. He awoke with a start. Something moved stealthily through the grasses to his right. Slowly, he unsheathed the dagger, careful not to stir otherwise and waited. Listened. The dry stalks of grass rustled slightly and stopped. Feigning sleep, Ahamd waited and watched the darkness as the sounds grew nearer. Finally, the grasses parted to reveal Yusef. There was a cool, deliberate set to his face, and his dagger was drawn.

Ahmad's grip tightened on the hilt of his own dagger.

"Cousin?" whispered Yusef. When Ahmad did not stir, he crept closer. The dagger moved nearer and nearer toward Ahmad's face and throat. Ahmad coiled his body, readying himself to strike first should the dagger come any closer. Just then, the moon sailed out from behind a curtain of clouds. The moonlight glinted off the dagger in Ahmad's hand. Yusef's face changed as though someone had drawn a mask over it. The deliberateness evaporated to be replaced by a look of friendly concern.

"Wake up, cousin," Yusef said quietly. "The moon is high. We should be moving. I fear there may be hyenas about."

"Hyenas," echoed Ahmad. He sat up.

"Yes. Hyenas." Yusef sheathed his dagger. "I think they are after the horses."

"Hyenas," Ahmad said again doubtfully.

Yusef nodded earnestly, his narrow eyes glinting in the moonlight. "They are after the horses. We should move."

Ahmad stood up and looked toward the place where the tethered horses still grazed contently, showing no sign of anxiety. His head was still fuzzy from lack of sleep, but he knew that if hyenas really stalked the small herd, they would not be scattered about on the ends of their tethers, grazing and happily swishing their tails. Even so, Ahmad had already begun to doubt what he had seen and heard there in the grasses: the stealthy sounds, the look on Yusef's face. Surely it was a dream. It had to be. Looking at Yusef, he nodded. "You're right. It's time we moved on."

They saddled their horses and were quickly underway again on the final leg of the journey that would bring them back to their tribe's encampment. As he rode, Ahmad watched the stars. If he had calculated their location correctly, they would arrive back into camp well before dawn. That would give him plenty of time. He could return the five gift horses to the tribal herd, see to the pack horse, and still have time to ride under cover of darkness to the Baobab encampment on the far side of the spring. It wasn't that he did not believe Yusef's report that the Baobab had arrived. It was just that he needed to see it for himself. In the time that had passed since he had been banished from Qirfah's presence, she had never been far from his thoughts. If he couldn't see her, he at least wanted to see her tent, to know that she was there and safe. He could do that much and no one would ever be the wiser.

Thinking of her, he gave his mount a firm kick. The horse surged forward.

[Lyra Greenleaf]

"I believe I was telling you about the time I drank Damrod 'the Mûmak' under the table, then spent the evening in the company of his two lovely daughters. I believe the huge man became a fixture to the Dark Sail inn, out cold for two days they say!"

Sammael laughed along with Zasfal and listened to his tale. He was obviously putting a shine onto the truth, but that was only to be expected. Sammael grinned secretly at the thought that this “Mûmak” was probably the size of Damodred. It was what he would do himself, except that he appeared to have a knack of getting into trouble and his tales needed no embellishments. Still, despite his misgivings he clapped Zasfal on the back.
“A tale well told” he said with a grin. “When we get the chance we shall see which of us can drink more, yes?”

"And what of you! you and your protective friend must have a tale or two to tell?"....
A slow smile spread over Sammael’s face as they stood in the growing dark.
“Indeed we do. But Damodred would not be any good at telling them, his descriptions are dry, his facts are too honest and his sour face spoils the whole effect. So if you do not mind I will tell you a tale to make your hair curl” he added with a grin at Zasfal’s long curly hair. It was an affectation Sammael had never liked, it got in the way when you tried to fight.
Zasfal indicated his assent.

“Very well” Sammael began with a flourish and cleared his throat loudly. “I am sure you think I’m a fool” he said and looked directly at Zasfal. An expression flickered through the other man’s eyes that convinced Sammael he was right.
I think no different of you, he added internally.
“Once upon a time” he continued aloud “Damodred thought the same.”
”Who says I changed my mind?” the old man muttered with a grimace, but there was a twinkle in his eye. He knew what tale was following and the message it contained, and if Damodred himself didn’t come out of it looking too rosy then so be it.

“My tale begins seven years ago. It ends, also, seven years ago for it took but one night. I had been employed by the Dark Citadel then too, and I was sent on a mission with the old man. The purpose of the mission is immaterial; suffice to say we received glory and honour on our successful completion of it. On the way we stopped at a little tavern in Near Harad, full of farmers and traders. The two of us were got up as traders too, with fabrics, ribbons and some of those fancy baskets from the south. We were in the common room, I with one of the tavernmaids on my knee and Damodred getting blind drunk on his own. As far as I can make out he was drowning his sorrows at being paired with a fool for such a dangerous journey.

Anyhow all of a sudden I heard a commotion from the other end of the room. It appeared that the old man had challenged one of the locals, a big man who would make your Mûmak look like a mouse, no doubt. I decided to leave him to it, being naturally of a more trusting nature and being also otherwise engaged. The men were crowding around waiting to see the old man get pummelled, but of course he was fine. He used some of those wrestling moves that he has learnt from the Eye knows where. They may not be quite fair but it gets the job done.

Well the only problem was that the locals were not too pleased about the result and a number of them pulled knives. It was at that point that I regretfully had to leave the wench Amarya, who was a lovely girl, fair in the manner of Near Harad- fair of skin and hair, that was, for we have women here who are far more beautiful. I pushed my way through the crowd to Damodred.
‘The two of us can take them, right?’ I said to him.
‘Oh yes’ he answered, a gleam in his eye.

So I drew my long knife and held in front of me, while Damodred sat down to put on his boots, having taken them off to do his wrestling tricks.
‘Who’s first?’ I asked, full of bravado. ‘And who will take on my companion?’
That was then they began to laugh and, seized with a sudden fear I turned around. There was the old man, head down on a table, fast asleep! That was when I began to worry. With a sigh I picked the old man up and put him over one shoulder, having first shaken him to see if he would wake. Once again I lifted my knife.
‘So it looks like it will be one at a time, then’ I said. ‘Who’s first?’

A young man stepped up, with curling hair like yours halfway down his back. He drew a shoddy sword. It took me but a few moments to knock it from his hand, then I picked it up awkwardly and pinned his jacket to the wall while he fumbled for his belt knife. The next man was more skilled and it took a while to beat him. During the fight I hit Damodred’s head on one of the walls a few times, which is why his brain is less developed than it should be. After a while, though, I did manage to get the knife into his cheek. The only problem was he had his back to me at the time. I don’t think he sat for a while.

The next few men were easy to beat, farmers not warriors. One I cut along the face and gave him a fine scar to show his friends, the other I pinned to a table as I had the first boy. He, incidentally, had got away and slunk off, ashamed no doubt, by this time. Finally the fifth man approached me roaring with mirth. He could barely stand for laughing. As he got closer he clapped me on the shoulder which did not have Damodred on it and said ‘Enough! I have not been so entertained in years’. It turned out he was the innkeeper, Amarya’s father, and we stayed there that night. And the next too, for Damodred had such a headache the next day he could not stir from his bed. I would like to visit again, for I have never met that girl’s like.”

With a wistful look on his face that was not entirely feigned Sammael ceased his tale. He remembered that night, and what followed, very well- and there was not one word of a lie in what he had said. If Zasfal did not believe that he had bested four men with Damodred on his shoulder that was his choice. He would see soon enough that Sammael could hold his own in a fight. To the side he could see the woman from earlier was watching. He winked at her as she stood in the shade of a huge pillar. As he continued to glance around he saw that more than one man had been listening to his story, but now their attention was taken by men of the Citadel bringing out tables and food. Then a cart rumbled into the courtyard carrying barrels of ale. Sammael’s eyes lit up.

“Come, Zasfal. Shall we see which of us can eat more before we drink?”
Without looking to see whether the other man followed Sammael walked over to the tables of food. He bowed his head and crossed his hands over his chest, the sign of respect to the Eye. Half turning he saw Zasfal looking at him askance. Few men made the sign of respect before eating, but Sammael believed it had helped his luck, for he was surely blessed with that! It was just sense anyway, especially in the Dark Citadel. You never knew who had been watching and seen that. Sometimes you had to make your own luck.

[Ealasaid]

Ahmad and Yusef arrived back into the Painted Sand encampment well before dawn, just as Ahmad had expected. Yusef disappeared quickly in the direction of his tent, leaving Ahmad to deal with the horses on his own. That suited Ahmad fine. His exhausted mind was a confusion of thoughts and feelings, memories and half-forgotten dreams. The last thing he needed was to have to listen to anymore of Yusef's barbed comments, or worry about what Yusef might be up to when Ahmad's back was turned. Grateful to be rid of him, Ahmad rode on toward the area where the tribe's communal horses were kept. When he got there, he found Salman and Ratib, two elders from the Rain clan, slumped sleepily in their saddles, watching over the grazing animals. Ahmad greeted them courteously, and, while he wondered why elders should be out watching the horses, he said nothing. Watching the horses was a job for the very young men of the tribe.

But then most of the young men had been acting strangely lately. There was the knifing that Yusef had told him about, the one that had taken place in the evening of the day Ahmad had left for the north. According to the story Yusef told, it had happened shortly after dark as the moon first rose over the peaks of the distant mountains. A quarrel had broken out between two young men of the Rain clan. No one was sure what the quarrel was about, but when it was over, Mahir lay dead and Fouad stood over him, a bloody dagger in his hand and a wild light in his eyes. A mysterious red stone lay in the dust at his feet. It had taken four Rain clan elders to subdue him, but finally it had been done and Fouad had been taken away, bound. The red stone had disappeared, and, as far as Yusef knew, Fouad had not spoken since. At one time, Fouad had been a friend of Ahmad, so the news was that much more troubling. Fouad had never been the violent type. The image of his childhood friend, standing bloodied over the body of his own kinsman, haunted Ahmad's tired mind as he went about his work. Slowly, the vision changed, the mad eyes of Fouad overlapping and bleeding into the cold eyes of Yusef. The drawn dagger. Ahmad gave his head a quick shake. He was too tired. He had to clear his head.

But, then, there was Qirfah. Just as Yusef had said, the Baobab encampment lay to the west, on the far side of the spring, the white tents visible in the dark distance as the two men rode in from the north. She was there. Ahmad could feel her presence in the core of his being, and he knew he would have no peace until he at least saw her tent. The time that had passed since he had last held her in his arms had been too long, yet still no woman could compare to her. He knew that he had given his word to Jamilah, but the desire to see Qirfah again, to hold her again, tortured him. Too often Qirfah's smile danced before his eyelids when he tried to sleep, the memory of her scent still clouding his head as he awoke. If he couldn't see her, he at least needed to be near her, however briefly.

Like a sleepwalker, he finished releasing the tribe's horses back into the herd and saw to the unloading and grooming of the packhorse. It was still dark when he returned to his own horse and rode out of the Painted Sand camp toward the camp in the west. Sham's unshod hooves made a muffled clop-clop sound in the dust as he approached the outer circle of tents of the Baobab encampment. Ahmad dismounted, leading the horse and listening intently for the faint, watery tinkle of glass on glass. Some years before, the Baobab tribe had camped at the foot of an old volcano. In the clear waters of the stream at its foot, the tribe had found a wealth of obsidian, volcanic glass. While many members of the tribe had taken the obsidian and made arrowheads and ceremonial knives, Qirfah had selected only the narrowest, longest shards and, hanging them with twine from a small branch, fashioned herself a windchime. Ahmad knew that the windchime always hung by the door of Qirfah's tent to remind her of that beautiful place and the way the waters of the stream had flowed over the obsidian shards, making them sing.

A steady breeze had been blowing throughout the night. He knew that the windchime would be singing. It would lead him to her.

[ June 18, 2003: Message edited by: Ealasaid ]

[ June 18, 2003: Message edited by: Ealasaid ]

[piosenniel]

Qirfah

The breeze was hot, and from the east. The sort that drove the tiniest of sparks from a ill tended campfire into a raging blaze through the tall dry grass if left unheeded.

Despite the labors of the day, Qirfah was restless. Her children slept soundly, the innocent dreams of the very young playing behind their eyes. She could hear them murmuring softly to some unseen playmate, calling out to them to come and finish up a game. In the warmth of the tent, they had thrown off their light covers, and lay stretched out in their innocence on their mats.

She smiled toward them in the darkness, rising up from her own mat. Husam’s hand came up to hers and she knelt down, tucking it back across his chest. ‘Go back to sleep, Husam,’ she whispered to him. ‘I am only going out to check that our fire has gone out completely. The east wind has risen.’ Half asleep, he sighed and turning on his side fell quickly back to his own dreamings.

Qirfah drew her long silken robe over her night clothes and stepped quietly out into the fresh night air. The ashes in the fire pit were dead and cold, no need for her to worry over them. The moon was bright overhead, the previous scattering of clouds blown away as she lay on her mat. Above her shown the Drinking Gourd, that big gathering of stars that pointed always to the north. It was turned upright from where she stood, holding in the promise of water – there would be no rain soon for the thirsty grasses, or so the storytellers said when they wove their tales about the fire.

The glass of her little wind chime caught the breeze, and tinkled softly in the darkness. Fully awake now, she walked quietly to the old baobab tree that spread its great limbs into the camp a short distance from her tent. She leaned back against its trunk, in the shadow of its crown, looking out at the silvered expanse of grassland in the moonlight - the gulf that lay between her and the little spring. The wind passed over the tips of the grass bending them in great, undulating waves moving toward her again and again.

Lost in thought, her world narrowed in around her, the sounds of the night fading away to a distant murmur . . .

[ June 19, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Ismat – leader of the Grey Parrot Clan

‘Duha! Wake up, little wife. I am going now’

The woman sat up on her mat, her face was drawn with worry and her eyes red from the tears that fled down her cheeks. ‘I am not asleep, Ismat. How could I be?’

The light from the small oil lamp that Ismat had lit threw sharp shadows on the walls of the tent. The tent was empty, except for them. The third mat, still laid out in hopes that Munir, their child, was a grim reminder of what must be done tonight. Duha put her hand on her husband’s arm, a pleading look in her eyes.

‘Is there no other way that what the Elders spoke of,’ she asked, her eyes wide with a mother’s fear. ‘He is our only child. How can they want to abandon them?’

Ismat leaned forward, taking his wife’s face in his hands. He kissed her lightly on the brow. ‘I will try as hard as I can to convince him to come home, Duha. But he is old enough now to make his own choices and to live with what he does choose. As for the others, I do not know what will happen. Jasara’s spirit has turned dark, and she holds great sway over them.’

Duha watched as he rose, tucking in his shirt as he did so. His thick ironwood stick was in his hand as he left the tent, closing the flap of it securely. She blew out the lamp, the smell of the smoky oil lingering in her nostrils until the night breezes pulled it up and out through the smoke hole at the tent’s crown.

*+*+*+*+*+*

He found them in a pack, like wild animals, huddled together in the open just beyond the edges of the camp. He had brought a hooded lantern with him, and now he opened its light full on them. They woke, their dark eyes glinting in the sudden light, silent, regarding him as a hunter would regard its prey.

Munir edged to the back of the group, his eyes not meeting those of his father, who sought him out with a smile. The other young ones closed in around Munir, shielding him.

Ismat stepped no closer to the group. His gaze now seeking Jasara’s as she stepped a little forward. His words to them were short – telling briefly what the Elders had decided. There would be a two day time period for the young ones to come back to their families and to the tribal ways. Then, the Elders would meet again, and those who had not come back would be set out on their own, cut off from the tribe in all ways.

‘You will be dead to us,’ he said. ‘Ghosts. The warriors will drive you from our camp and you cannot return.’ His eyes swept the ragged group in their thin clothes. The sound of hyenas came from a distance, their eerie laughter filling the silence between the man and the young ones, and fading as they ran after the promise of a kill.

‘You will be dead to us,’ he said again, his words hanging in the once again thick silence. ‘And we will mourn you.’

He shut the hood of the lantern abruptly, and turning quickly strode swiftly back to the tents of the tribe.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

The statement made by the leader of the Grey Parrot clan sent up a fierce discussion between all of the young. Several children were struck with the grim reality that if they did not go home...they would never be able to go home. Others were still prepared to go out with their fellow young.

"What will we do?" spoke up little Rijal through the heated talks of the other young. It was a simple question, and a question that covered just about every single worry the young were now faced with.

"We will stay as a tribe. We have not needed the Elders for a long while," snapped Najah, eyeing the tents in the distance that housed the despised Elders. "We will not need them if they send us away. We have Jasara...they have old women and men who are stuck in the past. To them, the past will always be a shadow that follows them around. I would rather leave and let the memories fade."

"Things never go the way I want them to," murmured Nasir grimly. He always feared that the day would come when the rebellious group was shunned by the people the young didn't realize they needed. "But I cannot abandon you people, and my leader at such a time."

"At sunrise I fight to stay asleep because I can't bear to look at the faces of the elders, knowing that I am against everything they stand for," one little girl interjected from the back of the group, near Munir. "We will be dead."

Jasara listened to all of this, eyes wide. She alone stood over the group, taking in every child's words. This was her biggest fear. That perhaps the voice in her head was wrong...and that everything would come tumbling down on her. She could only take so much. Jasara's father would probably not take Jasara back...after all, Jasara was the cause of the rift in the tribes. Khasia may be accepted back, but certainly not Jasara.

"It only breaks my heart to see us seemingly stand in the shadow. To me it feels akin to the darkness spreading over the land recently," piped up Munir from behind several of his fellow children who had shielded him from his own father. That was how far it had gone between the young and old...that children had to hide from their parents in shame and fear.

"What should I do?" whispered Jasara nervously to the voice, hoping that no one had heard the hushed voice coming from above them.

The shadows are your friend. You do not need the elders...they will not stand long, answered the voice menacingly, though Jasara was used to the cold tone. Despite the little light from the night sky, Jasara blinked once or twice with a vision in her eyes of a great and lidless eye. Jasara quickly wiped this sight away from her mind, and focused again on the group.

"So the Elders' leniency has come to an end, as such things do," Jasara began, over the loud voices of the children and teenagers. "And now another threat has come, all prepared to hand us the worst. But tell me, can a tribe or community of old and aged folk survive for long without a great portion the young to continue the line?"

Jasara paused for a moment of tenative, absolute silence. Then she spoke three words that hushed everyone around her, hitting them like a harsh slap on the face.

"I think not."

"But my family!" cried a few children. There were few other choruses and variations of this, including repetitions of Ismat's words, "We will be dead to them."

"Silence!" roared Jasara, surprising the whole group. Jasara had let the voice in her head speak through her using the girl's voice to quiet the children. "All you who are scared of what the elders think and what they will do can roll up their sleep-bags tomorrow and leave. The rest of us will continue on our own, if need be. We will be our own tribe. We have everything and everyone we need."

"Lets go then, lets make our escape. We wait, and let the old come and shoo us away like rats," came a familiar voice, slightly shaky to begin with but continuing on to be more confident. Khasia stood, face filled with emotions that Jasara could not distinguish. "There is no other choice. For some it is too late."

In more ways than one, I'm afraid, Jasara! snickered the voice that beckoned to Jasara.

[ June 19, 2003: Message edited by: Aylwen Dreamsong ]

[Durelin]

Throwing back the huge black iron doors, Sevora emerged from the meeting hall, a broad grin looking quite out of place on her bloodied face. Her lips were a sickly dark red from the dried blood, and the lines still ran down her cheeks. Her teeth were also covered in blood, making her resemble a hyena just finished with its prey. The others followed her, both with bland expressions, though Naramarth had a ghost of a smile on his pale face, the dried blood on his cheeks only emphasized the paleness of his skin, giving him the gross appearance of a corpse.

"We will meet our escort now," she said to them without turning around, her voice strangely cheery. "Oh Rahvin, I'll need you to purchase me a new dress, I believe" she said, seemingly speaking to no one. "One for travel. You know what I need. And, of course, you must supply us." She paused, and a man emerged silently from the shadows by the door to the meeting hall behind the three members of the citadel. He came up to walk beside Sevora, the Eye tattooed on his forehead barely visible in the dim corridor. "I must meditate on this mission and make my personal offering soon."

"I will see that you are not disturbed."

"Why thank you, Rahvin, dear," Sevora said, looking at him with a most twisted grin, having the slightest resemblance of a fond look. The man's own lips twitched a bit, getting as close to a smile as he ever had.

As the group emerged from the Citadel, Sevora was prepared to shield her eyes from the bright sunlight, but, when the huge twisted metal doors were drawn back, the pale beams of a newly risen moon were the only sources of light. "I was not aware of the time that passed within that hall," she remarked to no one in particular.

Gliding down the great steps, the four went out into the courtyard toward the beginnings of a campsite, out of place on the black stone that covered the ground. Seven of those among the camp came up to meet them, leaving ten or fifteen men behind, all dressed the same. She studied those who stood before them for a moment. One was old, one a woman, one had an uncanny grin, and one… Sevora smiled. "Ghurdan! It warms my heart to see you and pleases me to see you well, Black Heart," she said with mock glee, her eyes glancing toward the long scar on his face. Her grin broadened and her eyes burned. "Though, I am not surprised by your presence, that the High One gave you these orders. He could not have you in the way of your mother's…work." She paused, giggling a bit. "And the outcome has been for the better, has it not? We do get along so well, after all." Her giggles grew louder and she doubled over for a moment, laughing.

In the midst of small laughs, Sevora had each one introduce themselves. She did not ask any questions until it came to the man named Thorgom. "You come from the tribal lands?"

"Yes, Wise One."

"Than you will know of the tribal ways. We will have good use for you." Without another word she moved onto the next man, the one with the uncanny grin. When all had told them who they were and preached their undying loyalty to the Eye, Sevora turned back to Ghurdan. "Why do you wear such?" she said sharply. Her grin had faded a while ago. "And your men -- they are yours aren't they? -- why are they clothed in such colors? We will be traveling through these lands. What colors do you see? What conditions?"

Her gaze went toward all of those before her. "I expect you all to have the proper supplies for the desert and southern grasslands when I return. I must speak to the Lidless Eye and offer him my prayers. The most noble members of the Order, Priest Naramarth and Priestess Dristi, will give you any further orders." Sevora gestured to the two, then looked over the seven warriors once more. They would have to be worked with. No, not with, she corrected herself, They will have to be the ones at the ends of my leashes.

[ June 19, 2003: Message edited by: Durelin ]

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

A strange tremor went through Khasia at the old man’s words. She didn’t have Jasara’s confidence in their ability to survive alone. The cries went up around them, cries for caution and cries for action, she caught the cry of a small girl called Ralah. “I don’t want to die!” Khasia sent the girl a withering glance.

Jasara’s lips moved in the darkness, and suddenly her calm voice rang clear again above the sounds of the troubled group. "All you who are scared of what the elders think and what they will do can roll up their sleep-bags tomorrow and leave. The rest of us will continue on our own, if need be. We will be our own tribe. We have everything and everyone we need."

“Yes.” Khasia held her voice steady despite her fear. “There is no other choice. For some it is too late.” She moved across the camp decisively, gathering her few things together. The sound of the girl, Ralah, whimpering rung in Khasia’s ears. Stopping abruptly she jerked the girl upright by her arm. “Do you really believe that the curses of the old will kill you?” She spit on the ground. “Go back to your mother.” The girl’s eyes blazed for a moment and she stood taller. Khasia looked at her appraisingly. She’d always held near the back and not spoken much. “Are you going? Stay too much longer and your family will be weeping for you.”

“My mother is old.” Ralah said with venom, and turned away. Khasia’s eyes followed her as she went, but her head was swimming. Old. The old were useless, that was what she had always believed. What an old man could do a young man could do faster. But were there enough of them? Her heart rate quickened as she listed their numbers off on her fingers. They had Jasara. If nothing else she was a strong leader. Nasir, too cautious. Najah, arrogant but talented. She went through them one by one, they had a sword master, hunters, those who made trade objects. They had, Narisa who knew every edible plant. Her muscles relaxed slightly as she counted them in her mind. They would be alright they would be fine.

She moved to the large pot where she’d recently stashed the bundle of colored fibers that Jamilah had given her. Transferring all the materials into a large basket, she paused when she came to the bundle. She held it in one hand, looking at the bold colors, so much brighter than the ones she had been able to produce. She held it for a moment, then threw it back on the ground. Someone had gone to the elders. The old witch and her talk of healing. Khasia gritted her teeth as she tucked her sleeping things securely on top of the large basket and walked over to join Jasara, Najah, and Nasir at the edge of camp. “We should go now.” Jasara said, mechanically. Khasia glanced at her sister and then at Najah. The other girl shook her head and cast an arm toward Jasara’s sleep bag, crumpled on the ground where she’d yet to pack it. Khasia bent and rolled it, stuffing it into her sister’s arms.

“I will not stay and be driven out, Jasara. Morning is coming, and I mean to be gone.”

[ June 20, 2003: Message edited by: Sophia the Thunder Mistress ]

[Helkahothion]

As the priestess walked back, Thorgom spat on the ground.

"Good use of me? Some nerve for a woman. She'd better watch her steps." He mumbled to himself.

The group was now gathered and waiting for the woman to get back. Thorgom drank some water. The travel had made him very thirsty. As he looked around, he saw none of the man of the tribes around. Not that he cared anyway. He had been with a tribe for a while, but he could not stand them. He could not stand much of a group anyway. So instead, he just sat down and waited for the woman to return. Her comment on the clothing did not please Thorgom either. He just saw the priestess as an arrogant low-life. He hoped that she would not lead him into battle. She wouldn't anyway. He would go himself. But he needed a battlefield and she would guide him there.

He wiped the sweat of his head. With a piece of textile, he bound his hair together. As he was bored, he started to sharpen his axes. He got a repulsive look from the others. They had obviously never saw someone from around. Thorgom looked at one and gave him a foul look. He had the urge to kill them all. They were all getting on his nerve. But he controlled himself and went on sharpening the axe. When his big axe was done, he took out his throwing axes. With his pants, he wiped them clean, leaving a brown stain on the pants. Thorgom did not mind, the pants were brown before. Maybe because it was hardly ever washed. The citadel reminded him of something. He had the strange feeling he knew it from some place else. Like he had been there before. He sure remembered the way towards it. Thorgom wanted to close his eyes, but stopped himself.

"No, no flashing memories again Thorgom."

[ June 20, 2003: Message edited by: Helkahothion ]

[Nerindel]

Zasfal

Zasfal listened to Sammael's tale intently. "out cold" he laughed looking to the older man for confirmation, grimacing Damodred nodded that it was true. He then turned back to Sammael and listened with interest to the rest of the tale.

"During the fight I hit Damodred's head on one of the walls a few times, which is why his brain is less developed than it should be." at this Zasfal laughed, he saw the older man cringing, obviously remembering the headache that had followed on regaining consciousness. Sammael had continued on regardless. Zasfal feigned awe at the man's recount of his battle, all the while his insides knotting with disdain. He could clearly see why Sammael had chosen this tale but to him the mans boasts were baseless and empty, These were farmers and traders he spoke of besting not seasoned warrior's and he hadn't even killed any of them.

His thoughts were disturbed by the rumbling of a cart loaded with large kegs of ale making its way to the centre of the courtyard. "Come, Zasfal. Shall we see which of us can eat more before we drink?" he heard Sammael say as he turned, not waiting for his reply. Zasfal smirked at the two men's back as he followed, Sammael's tale had told him much that his captain would be interested in hearing.

As he reached the table he watched Sammael cross his hands over his chest and bow, an older sign of respect but one none the less. seeing Sammael half turn and look in his direction he raised his eyebrow in askance. Before he could take something to eat he heard Ghurdan's loud commanding voice cry "To The Eye!" Zasfal turned to see his captain raising his ale and without thinking he joined in the reply snatching a mug from a passing crew member, who quickly scuttled away at his threatening glare.

As he turned to gauge his companions reaction to the presence of the notorious Sea Captain, he heard the screech of the huge twisted metal doors of the citadels main building open. Two Priestesses, one priest and another man.. A Bodyguard he assumed, glided down the great steps towards them. He walked over with the rest of the warriors to greet them respectfully.

As he waited he drop the smile knowing that it would not be appropriate. He cocked his eye at the mocking pleasantries the priestess afforded his captain, So this must be the Priestess Sevora! he thought to himself. But this was nothing compared to what she said next... "Though, I am not surprised by your presence, that the high one gave you these orders. He could not have you in the way of your mother's...work." Mother.... his mother is a priestess he thought his eyes widening in surprise.

As the priestess turned to him he afforded her the customary greeting "My name is Zasfal and it is my honour to serve the all powerful Eye." he said bowing slightly. As he looked up he saw the woman looking disdainfully at his bright red sash then to the clothes of both Ghurdan and his crew, she then turned on the captain...

As she scolded the proud captain publicly about his choice in garments, Zasfal lowered his head, the choice of uniform had been his and he dreaded to think of what the vicious captain would do to him once the priestess left. But as he looked up he was surprised to see a satisfied smile on the usually scowling mans face, then it dawned on him, 'He knew the uniforms would annoy the Priestess' he thought grinning approvingly and as he looked around he saw a large chest on the back of the cart that had brought the ale. off course he thought, the captain had obviously made arrangements earlier in the day for the proper attire to be brought to the citadel.

As the priestess Sevora left he relaxed and waited respectfully for the other priest and priestess to either issue other orders or dismiss them.

*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+

Ghurdan

After toasting the Eye Ghurdan moved to the back of the cart and grinned as he saw a large wooden trunk, he opened it slightly and peered inside, pleased with what he saw he closed the lid and drained the ale from his mug.

As he moved away he felt someone grip his arm tightly, he disdainfully glared at the hand holding him. "My name is..... Thorgom..... I would... like to..... speak with your...... eh .... leader... I hear you need people." he heard the man attached to the hand say, breathing deeply to catch his breath, 'A hand he will not have for long if he does not remove it!' Ghurdan thought maliciously, but before he could say anything he heard the great doors of the citadels main building open. Shrugging the mans grip from his arm he looked up and said "I seems she is coming to speak with us" a wicked grinned crossed his face as he indicated the priestess gliding down the citadel steps and without waiting to see the mans reaction he made his way over to the others that waited.

He watched as Sevora scanned the group, she is indeed beautiful he thought, showing no signs of any emotion as the woman's gaze finally fell on him. "Ghurdan! It warms my heart to see you and pleases me to see you well, Black Heart," she said with mock glee "Indeed" was his curt reply. As he noticed her glance towards the scar she herself had giving him, he saw her grin broaden and her eyes burned with pleasure. She went on "Though, I am not surprised by your presence, that the High One gave you these orders. He could not have you in the way of your mother's... work." the pause had caused the effect that she had desired, Ghurdan knew at once that his eyes had betrayed him, the priestess giggled at the flash of anger in his eyes not the implication itself. As she giggled she played with him further "And the outcome has been for the better, has it not? We do get along so well, after all." He Actually grinned sharing in her sarcastic humour. This would indeed be an interesting journey he thought as between laughs she turn to the others gathered.

After his first mate introduced himself to the priestess she turned on Ghurdan, as he knew she would and proceeded to publicly humiliate him on his choice of clothing, although the choice was not his he let her go on, "I thought we were to be your puppets, so we dressed for the occasion!" he whispered in the dark speech that all priests and priestesses of the citadel knew. His grin broadened as he saw the flash of annoyance in her eyes, but it showed not on her features as she went on "I expect you all to have the proper supplies for the desert and the southern grasslands when I return." Ghurdan nodded respectfully at her request.

He knew that his mother would be punished for teaching someone outside the order the black speech but he cared not, it would serve her right he thought licking at the fresh cut on his lip. "Priest Naramarth and priestess Dristi, will give you any further orders." he heard her say gesturing to them. Ghurdan had not even noticed their presence until now.

[ June 20, 2003: Message edited by: Nerindel ]

[piosenniel]

Ealasaid's post

Leading his horse, Ahmad walked slowly through the sleeping Baobab encampment, his ears listening closely for the sound of Qirfah's windchime. It seemed so peaceful to him, so quiet there, without the sense of tension that embroiled his own camp. He hoped the Baobab had managed to evade whatever creeping poison was infecting the souls of his own tribe.

The east wind that had died a moment earlier picked up again, carrying with it the soft tinkle of chimes. He turned in that direction. A great Baobab tree stood directly ahead of him, the sound of the chimes coming from just beyond. Moving cautiously so as to make no sound, he left his horse in the shadows and edged past the tree. He recognized Qirfah's tent instantly. All was quiet save the singing of the chimes. The moonlight cast a long shadow behind him as Ahmad crossed to the very door of her tent, where he stopped and waited for a moment, listening. When he was certain that no one stirred inside, he reached up and touched the shining black stone shards with his fingertips. She was so close. He fought off the temptation to attempt a peek through the tent flap for a glimpse of her. Finally, knowing he must depart quickly or risk being seen, he touched the lowermost shard of obsidian to his lips and turned resolutely to go.

When he reached his horse, he mounted and rode out of the camp at a gallop, no longer caring who he awoke. What he did not see was the slim shape of a young woman, concealed in the shadows of the Baobab tree, watching him.

Pio's post

Lost in her thoughts, Qirfah did not hear him until he was almost upon her. The rhythmic sounds of his mount’s hooves, muffled in leather, broke in on her consciousness just as they passed the tree. Her senses swam to the surface of her dreaming mind, and she gasped as she recognized the horse and rider. The east wind was kind and swallowed the sound in a sudden gust.

So close he came that it seemed she might reach out her hand and touch him. She willed her breathing to slow, her hands to stay at her sides. But the sound of her quickening heart beat pounded in her ears, and she thought all the camp would wake to it.

There in the engulfing shadows she hid from him, her dark eyes following every move. The wind picked up his scent and brought it to her, and she breathed it in – a rich fragrance of leather and horse and spice.

She pressed her slight form against the trunk of the tree, watching as he dismounted, and stole quietly into camp. Her sharp eyes picked out his figure as it drew near her tent, pausing at the closed flap, his fingers touching it, as if he would go in.

‘Let him not enter,’ she murmured to the night. And indeed, he stayed his movement, his fingers rising instead to the wind chime that hung from her tent pole. She could scarce breathe as she saw him kiss it, remembering the touch of those lips on her own.

In a moment of clarity edged with recklessness, she ran the short distance to where he had left his horse beneath the tree. Untying the thin leather cord from about her neck that held a small, pierced shard of obsidian, her quick fingers tied it securely into the horse’s thick mane. Stepping back just as quickly, she pressed herself once again against the rough bark . . . watching as he mounted . . . watching as he rode boldly from the camp . . . watching as his figure grew small in the far darkness and was swallowed up by the night . . .

[ June 22, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Morning time/new day

‘Jamilah!’

The voice outside her tent flap was insistent. She woke from her strange dream of trees and stars, swimming up to consciousness through the images of light that played behind her eyes. On an ordinary morning she would have reached for the little basket beside her mat; the one that held her bones, the ones she used to check the patterns of her dreams. A long slow breath and then a quick flip of the wrist would send them arcing to the floor, falling into heaps and scatterings that spoke to her. But not today.

‘Jamilah!’ the voice called again. ‘Are you there?’

‘One moment,’ she called back, slipping on her blouse and wrapping her skirt about her. She pushed her mat to the side, and hurried to the front of the tent, drawing back the flap as soon as she got there. The dark head of Duha poked through, followed by her generous body.

‘So sorry, so sorry to wake you,’ she said, her hands fluttering nervously with the hem of her shirt. ‘Ismat has sent me out . . . to you and the other Elders. You're the last.’ Jamilah was silent, inclining her head toward the fidgety woman, urging her to go on. By now Duha’s fingers had twisted the fabric of the shirt into a tight wad, and a small tear trickled down one cheek.

‘What is it, Duha? What has got you into such a state?’ Jamilah’s face turned an ashy color, remembering that Ismat had planned to go out to the bush to speak to the young people last night. ‘Ismat, he is not injured is he,’ she said, alarmed. She drew near the other woman and placed her hand on Duha’s arm.

‘No, no, nothing like that. Ismat is fine. It is our son, Munir. He has come back.’ Duha’s voice quavered a little as she spoke.

‘But surely that is a cause for rejoicing, not this long face and tears that I see.’ Jamilah looked at the other woman with concern. She took Duha’s hands in hers and led her to the mat, bidding her to sit down. She poured a cup of cool water for her and waited patiently while she collected herself.

Duha sat the cup carefully on the ground beside her and began to tell how just before first light, she and Ismat had been awakened by the sound of someone scuffling through dirt outside their tent. Ismat had gone out, only to find Munir, ragged and dirty, his face a mask of bruises, crouched down behind the little stack of wooden crates that stood near the back wall of their tent. His nose was bloodied, his shirt torn. And he cringed in fear when his father called his name and reached for him.

They had beaten him, he told them, once he had been brought inside the tent. He could not stand the thought of being cut off forever from his family, and he had told them he wanted to go home. Five of them dragged him into the center of the circle the others had formed around him. They called him names, called him a traitor, and they beat him with their fists and sticks, and kicked him when he fell to the ground. The others stood round watching and calling out taunts of their own. Only Jasara had said nothing, he told them, just stood there silent, her eyes dark and glowing, a look of satisfaction on her face.

Then Khasia had called to them, telling them they must be away from the camp before the dawn. ‘Leave him! He is nothing to us.’ The others had swirled about her and Jasara, carrying them along, out of sight and into the darkness. And when they were gone, little Sama’ had crept up to him from behind a thick bush where she had hidden. ‘Take me home,’ she had told him, putting her little hand in his. ‘I want to see my mami!’ Munir brought the little one to her family’s tent, watching as she entered.

‘Then he came home to our tent, but he was so ashamed he could not enter and face us. It was only after his father reached down for him, and pulled him to his feet, drawing him close with his arm about his shoulders, that Munir came in.’ Duha looked up at Jamilah, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘He’s only a little boy. Just ten this last new moon. They turned on him like animals. Save for the fact that Khasia called them away to do her bidding, they might have killed him.’

Duha’s hand strayed to knife she wore at her waist, the one she used for gathering roots, or skinning small game. She spoke in a low, clear voice.

‘I will kill the next one of them who comes near my son.’

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Jamilah walked back to the tent with Duha. The other Elders were already there. Munir, his eyes ringed by haunted shadows, sat close to his father, answering their questions in a whisper. And often his voice was muffled as he turned his face into the folds of his father’s shirt, when the memories were too awful to say aloud.

As she entered, Munir’s words fell into the silent pool of the Elders’ attention. ‘She talks often to something,’ he said, ‘though we never heard another voice. And sometimes her face goes blank almost, and she cocks her head as if listening to a voice. Her eyes grow large and dark, and she nods her head as if to say she understands what she is told.’ He looked up fearfully at his father. ‘She knows things, too. Like when something is going to happen. She’ll say it, and then it will come true.’

Jamilah sat quietly down next to Asim, the head of the Wild Dog clan. His face was grim as he sorted out the boy’s words, then grimmer as Munir continued.

‘They hate everyone who isn’t young like they are.’ He raised his head and looked out at the gathered Elders with a fearful face. ‘And they hate you especially. Jasara says your time is over. She says that you should die.’

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The clan Elders, stepped outside the tent, leaving Munir to the loving arms and gentle ministrations of his mother, while they spoke of what they had learned. They took the boy’s words seriously, and a certain level of alarm grew from them.

Faruq, Elder of the Wind Scorpion clan, announced he was going again today to speak with Ishak ben Ishak. ‘He intimated there was some trouble among their youth also. He should know what we have learned now about ours. If it is the same sickness of spirit, then perhaps together we can find some way to take care of it.’ Jamilah approached him saying she wished to go with him. She would speak with Briellah. Perhaps it was not just their two tribes whose children had become infected. A time was set, when the sun had moved three finger widths above the rim of the world, they would go, accompanied by five warriors.

Jamilah walked slowly back to her tent, to get her herbs and medicines for trading. A little cool water splashed on her face refreshed her, and she pulled on a clean shirt – one that Briellah had embroidered round the cuffs and hem for her. She put the wooden chest that held her herbs and medicines into one of her carry baskets, and tucked the basket cradle she had finished last night beneath her arm. As a precaution, she found her husband’s knives, still sharp in their sheaths, and hung them round her waist with a slim leather belt. Ready, she hastened out the door and to the spot appointed for their departure.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Word was passed to all the tribe’s members of what had happened that morning, a shortened story of what the Elders had heard from Munir. The warriors of each clan were martialed into more frequent duty by their leaders, and the members of the tribe drew in together to protect themselves and their families. The tribe became more watchful, and their weapons, once hung on the poles of their tents as seldom used decoration, now hung from their belts. And their hands, so it seemed, strayed near them often . . .

[ August 26, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Lyra Greenleaf]

Sammael was raising his cup to his lips when he heard a shout from behind him.
"To The Eye!" cried the leader of the acrobats.
"To The Eye" echoed Zasfal, still standing beside Sammael.
So that's it, is it? Sammael thought with a grin. The old man was right all along, no doubt. No matter.

Sammael was unperturbed to learn that Zasfal was indeed not to be trusted. There were very few people he did trust, only Damodred. Still if Zasfal thought to play him for a fool, he would get no such opportunity. He stood in thought, considering the best way to deal with this new knowledge.

The doors of the citadel flew open as if pushed by some wind, but all that appeared were two priestesses of the Eye and one priest. Sammael had little regard for priests- women could quite easily deal with the work and that left men to do the other work that was necessary, like this journey. If this priest had wanted to dedicate himself to the Eye he could have become a Citadel guard.

One of the priestesses was obviously in charge; she had an aura of power about her which was only increased by the blood that spattered her clothes, hair and face. She was a beautiful woman, but for once that was not what Sammael noticed. He could feel nothing but respect for her. As she approached each person one by one, Sammael found his hands clenched. He could not tell why- fear, anticipation, or something else?

He watched her talk to a man he had not noticed before, a southern tribesman by his look. Sammael nodded approvingly, a little local knowledge could go a long way. It seemed she agreed with Sammael's own thoughts regarding the costume of the acrobats, as she spoke to their leader she doubled over with laughter. It was an eerie and rather unpleasant sound. This laughter seemed to fit in far better than Sammael's own to the atmosphere of the Citadel.

After talking to Zasfal she came to Damodred. The old man unemotionally pledged loyalty. He did not have the same respect for the dark religion that Sammael had, but he was not stupid enough to be anything but zealous here. Finally she came to Sammael. Quickly he made the sign of respect, then introduced himself. He gave his pledge with a far stronger oath than anyone else had, and she smiled coldly. It was only then that Sammael realised he was grinning himself. She must think...I know not what! he thought agonisedly. It was nothing but a relief when she moved on, and it was only then that Sammael noticed his palms were bleeding from the marks his nails had made.

[piosenniel]

It was a contrast in moods. The day was bright and clear, no clouds to hide the sun. The fragrance of the newly bloomed maryamiya bushes filling the air with their bittersweet odor. In the branches of the taller bushes small flocks of sunbirds, called out merrily to one another. Twitterings and chirps relayed a constant stream of information: I am here! Look! Fat insects on this limb! Move over, this place is mine! It was an altogether bright prospect of a day.

Not so to the group that moved east from the Baobab tree. Five warriors, armed and armored. Their dark, quick eyes alert for trouble as they scanned the way before and behind. In their midst walked Faruq and Jamílah, silent also as they thought on the events of the past night and the barely passed dawn.

Jamílah’s eyes were troubled as she looked out on her surroundings. For all its light and promise, the world about her seemed to have shifted, gone askew. And the shadows of things beneath the sun seemed darker and sharper, as if they welled up out of some deeper darkness and poured into the objects they touched.

She shivered in the warmth of the sun, drawing her shawl tighter about her shoulders, and quickened her pace.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The tents of The Painted Sands camp were a welcome sight. Guards there had seen them approach in the distance, and now a small welcoming party came out to meet them.

Briellah was among them, and Jamílah’s spirit brightened at the sight of her old friend. ‘The warriors,’ asked Briellah, sensing the tension in the small group, ‘why have they come with you? There was a never a need before.’ Her face was filled with concern as she asked her question, her eyes taking in the troubled expression on the other woman’s face.

Jamílah took in a deep breath, wondering where to begin, but was cut off as Ishak bade them come into camp to share the hospitality of his tent. Briellah took the carry basket of herbs and medicines from Jamílah in one hand, and hooked her free arm through her friend’s. ‘Let us go to my little tent,’ she said, putting her head against Jamílah’s and speaking low. ‘My daughters can serve as hostess to the men, who will most likely shoo them away like sand-flies anyway. The men have some unpleasant things to discuss, I think. They will not want other ears about.’

She paused for a moment, and looked appraisingly at her friend. ‘And you, Jamílah - I think you have not just come to trade herbs and make small talk, either.’ She walked on drawing Jamílah along with her.

‘Come, we will have some sweetened qawah (coffee) from the far southern lands - thick and dark just as you like it. It will warm you. And then we will talk . . .’

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

The previous evening had been like something out of a nightmare. Khasia had dragged an angry Nasir away from the circle of children. When this beating had started, she didn't know, but the limp figure of the boy, Munir, had been left on the ground where they had thrown him.

Nasir was still angry with her, now that morning had come. His eyes smouldered when he glanced her direction, but Khasia didn't care. If they had killed that boy, if he had died... She set her jaw. The elders would have no mercy with murderers. Khasia knew it. Nasir should have known it. She was not about to lose everything for the sport of beating a skinny little boy.

Fitfully Khasia adjusted the fabric shoulder straps on her basket. The group had been walking since a few hours before dawn and were a respectable distance from the Baobab tree and the old encampment. Sweat trickled down the back of Khasia's neck underneath her braided hair, and dampened the fabric of her shirt. She rolled her shoulders trying to unstick the clammy cloth from her skin, but it was no use. Narisa walked in front of her, her eyes fastened firmly to the ground, a bulging sleep bag tucked under one arm.

Khasia let her eyes stray over their little group, making sure that Ralah was keeping up with the others. Everyone was lagging a bit, and why shouldn't they? Hard walking in the heat was something the tribe avoided, nobody was accustomed to it Khasia broke into a quick jog, soon reaching the front of the group where Jasara and Najah were talking.

"Jasara, how much further?" Her sister shot her an icy glance, probably still upset about the way Khasia had interrupted the fun last night. Rolling her eyes, Khasia grabbed Jasara's arm. "Look. I know you trust something I don't understand. I know you have answers from someplace I don't have access to. But I know that if we had killed that boy, the tribe would have killed us. You know it too, Jasara."

Jasara smiled to herself, and Najah clutched her sword, as though Khasia were an attacker. "We will stop soon enough, Khasia." Jasara told her in a low voice. "Not too far from here is an old campsite. The stream flows close enough by there, and we will have all that the land can give us. There is no need to go farther from the old than that." Khasia nodded, glancing back at the faces behind them, from the still glowering Nasir to the ever-cheerful Rijal. She hoped Jasara was right.

[Ealasaid]

FOUAD

Fouad lay alone in the dust, bound hand and foot, waiting to die. He had committed the ultimate sin of the Painted Sand people in killing one of his own in cold blood. It was only right that he should die for it. He was actually surprised that he had not been executed on the spot by his own uncles, but Ishak bin Ishak had forbidden it, saying that the camp had been tainted enough already by bloodshed. Such a thing was an evil omen. The execution would have to take place later, at a location outside the camp, where Fouad's blood would only serve to nourish the prairie grasses. And, now, that time had come. The four elders had taken him at noon to the chosen location, where they now stood around him, their faces cowled and their eyes grim.

Fouad smiled to himself. Ishak bin Ishak was a foolish old man. He had no idea what evil was. Fouad thought longingly of the red stone. He did not know where it had come from, but it had come to him, and through it, he had felt the power of the Eye. Through the red stone, the Voice of the Eye had spoken to him, told him things about power and the great change that would soon be sweeping across the desert on the swords of emissaries from the north. Fouad remembered standing alone among the swaying grasses, holding the beautiful stone up to the light, letting its red shadow bleed across his face, thinking, yes! Change must come. The Elder Way must perish before the beauty and power of the Eye. He had made plans. He had spoken with many of the other young people of the tribe, brought them to the Eye.

But then that idiot Mahir had taken the stone from him. A notorious prankster, Mahir had thought it funny the way Fouad had treasured the stone. He had stolen it as a joke and, in doing so, dishonored the stone and, through it, the Eye. For that, Mahir had to die and Fouad had killed him.

Fouad looked up into the eyes of his elders as, one by one, they unsheathed their curved swords. Yes, kill me! he thought. My blood may spill today, but yours will flow tomorrow. And he smiled as the first sword descended toward his throat.

************************************************

BRIELLAH

Briellah Ishak bin Ishak greeted her old friend Jamilah of the Baobab Tribe with a feeling of apprehension. Jamilah's trading party had arrived under the guard of five warriors. While that might not have been unusual for her own warrior tribe, it was disturbing to see weapons worn so openly by the Baobab men. They had always been such peaceful people. As Briellah took the carry basket from Jamilah and led her away to her own tent for some sweetened qawah, her mind raced ahead. There was so much she wanted to discuss with Jamilah, not the least of which was the troubling execution of the young man from the Rain clan. She could tell Jamilah was eager to talk as well.

Once they had reached the privacy of Briellah's tent and the qawah had been served, Briellah swirled the rich liquid around in the bottom of her cup without drinking. Finally, deciding she must speak frankly, she smiled sadly and raised her eyes.

"It is so good to see you, my old friend," she said quietly. "I wish we could speak of nothing but trading and other happy matters like the impending wedding of my daughter, but I fear that the time for that has past. There is much unrest amongst the young people of my tribe. I can only say that I have been blessed in that my own children remain true to the old ways. The others frighten me. There is only contempt in their eyes when there is not blankness. They are like vipers, coiled and waiting to strike. I have seen the same look in the eyes of the young of the other tribes we have traded with as well, the Khalish, and the Fazad. Tell me your tribe has not been infected, as well."

She looked imploringly at Jamilah, hoping against hope that Jamilah would be able to deny it, but the look in Jamilah's eyes told her everything. The Baobab had not been spared. Briellah's heart sank. She did not understand what was happening to the young people, but it seemed to be happening everywhere, to every tribe.

[ June 24, 2003: Message edited by: Ealasaid ]

[Ealasaid]

Having arrived back into the Painted Sand camp just as the first glimmer of sunrise appeared in the eastern sky, Ahmad slept well into the morning. When he awoke, the first thing he reached for was the obsidian shard on the twine around his neck. He turned it over between his fingers, a distant smile playing on the corners of his lips. He had not found the necklace, tied as it had been into the mane of his horse, until he had already arrived back into his own camp and was unsaddling the horse in preparation of returning him into the herd. His hand had struck the stone by chance. He had untied the necklace from the horse's mane and, holding its shiny blackness in his palm, stared at it in amazement. He wondered what kind of witchcraft had given it to him, but he took its presence as a sign from Qirfah. She had not forgotten him.

But the smile faded quickly. There was a sharp rap on the pole outside his tent flap, followed by the voice of Yusef. "Ahmad!" he called. "Get up! There is a delegation from the Baobab here to speak with your father and the elders. They have requested our presence."

"Our presence?" Ahmad called back. "Why? We are not elders."

"I didn't ask," Yusef answered grumpily. "They sent me to fetch you and here I am. We should make haste."

Ahmad dressed quickly and followed Yusef to the counsel ground where his father already sat, flanked by an assembly of elders from the five Painted Sand clans. A small Baobab group sat facing them. Ahmad and Yusef seated themselves on the ground behind the Painted Sand elders. One of the Baobab men had already begun to speak. Ahmad recognized him as Faruq of the Wind Scorpion clan. Faruq spoke long and earnestly of the problems among the Baobab, telling of the beating of a young boy the night before and the subsequent departure of many of the children and young people from the tribe. The young ones had established their own camp, his scouts had told him, in an old campsite not far from the stream.

Ahmad watched as the creased face of his father grew dark with worry. When the Baobab elder had finished, Ishak bin Ishak stroked his white beard. Then, he began to speak. He told of the way the young people, especially the young men of the Painted Sand tribe, had withdrawn from the rest of the tribe, refusing to work or care for the horses. He told of the murder several nights earlier of the Rain clan boy and of the execution of his murderer that was taking place as they spoke. At the mention of Fouad's execution, Ahmad turned to Yusef, who nodded gravely in confirmation.

So, Fouad is dead, Ahmad thought sadly. I had hoped to speak with him before his death. He might have been able to tell me what this sickness is, where it started.

As Ahmad's attention returned to cousel, he found that his father, Ishak bin Ishak, had continued to speak. "This execution," he said grimly. "Will lead to discord. This young man, Fouad, was one of the leaders of the young ones of our tribe. He was the first to turn away from us. There has been much grumbling with his arrest. So far, his death is not known to his followers as he was spirited out of our camp in secret, but the moment it becomes known, I fear there will be violence."

[ June 24, 2003: Message edited by: Ealasaid ]

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Rijal had turned away from the gruesome parts of the execution, burying his tiny face in the tuft of grass that hid him from the four elders that were killing Fouad. Jasara had asked Rijal to return to the outskirts of the Painted Sand tribe's camp, and did not say what to look for. However, Rijal immediately knew what she had meant once he saw Fouad and the four elders. Rijal knew that Jasara had communicated with Fouad once or twice, for Fouad was the leader of the young in the Painted Sand tribe. The way Jasara spoke of Fouad made Rijal think that she wanted the Painted Sand young to join their new tribe.

By the time the fourth blade had struck Fouad, Rijal could take it no longer. The look that was frozen on the dead boy's face haunted Rijal, for it seemed eerily similar to the expression that so often painted Jasara's face. Rijal turned away one last time, and ran. He sprinted, not thinking twice that the elders must have seen him dart off into the distance.

It did not take long for Rijal to make it to the camp the Baobob young had made. It was less than fifty paces away from the stream, which was made their new camp an excellent one. It also did not take long for Rijal to find Jasara, for the girl was almost always off by herself. This time she was alone by the stream.

"Jasara! Jasara! They killed him!" Rijal shouted when he was within earshot of Jasara. Then he continued up to the young woman, for she had not turned at his call.

Fouad is gone. whispered the familiar voice menacingly. He was killed by the elders. The young of the Painted Sand tribe are leaderless and defenseless against the disgusting elders.

Jasara grinned. She had known, thanks to the voice that haunted her, that it was only a matter of time before Fouad's downfall. There was power to be taken, and it would be taken by Jasara.

"There is no need, Rijal. I know. Thank you." she said shortly, causing Rijal to stop in his tracks and turn away.

Jasara stalked back towards her tribe's camp, letting the grass crunch beneath her feet. She walked up to Nasir, who was with Najah going over how many weapons they had and if it was enough for the new tribe. Nasir turned to face Jasara before she could get his attention, and he frowned.

"We only have enough to supply half the tribe," he said simply. "We have too many bows and not enough children who can wield a bow properly. We don't have enough swords and too many children who can only use those."

"First off, that is what we have you and Najah for. You are here to teach them how to use your weapons. Najah is excellent with a bow, and thus she will teach those who prefer swords to instead prefer bows. Second, I have something far more important to tell you. Fouad is dead, and there are young that are leaderless in the Painted Sand camp," said Jasara with a low, oily voice.

"I see. Well, we'll send Rijal to inform their second-in-command that we will come for them tonight. Then you and I can sneak them out while the elders are sleeping," suggested Nasir with little thought, and Jasara nodded approval.

Good. Our forces strengthen.

[piosenniel]

Jamílah and Briellah

Jamílah’s words to Briellah brought no comfort to the woman. Her hands were clasped tightly around her mug of hot drink, a vain hope that the warmth of it would warm, too, her spirit. She told her how the children were pulling away from the elders and from the traditions of the tribe. She spoke of Munir, and how he had been beaten when he returned to his family.

Briellah shook her head sadly, her eyes going wide when Jamílah told her that the Clan Elders had banished the young one’s group. ‘We cannot save them, or so it seems to us. And so we must look to the safety of the Tribe.’

Most disconcerting to both women was Jamílah’s recounting of Munir’s story. How the leader of the young ones’ group, Jasara, seemed to be entranced at times and listened to a voice unheard by others, and spoke with it.

‘Have you heard of this among the other tribes,’ Jamílah asked, searching her friend’s face. ‘Is there a leader among your young ones? Does some voice speak to them.’

__________________________________________________ _____________________

Qirfah and Qamar

Breakfast was done. Husam and the two children had eaten with Qamar’s family - Husam giving the excuse that Qirfah felt unwell. Qamar’s face had brightened at this news, and she whispered in his ear as she passed him the bowl of porridge.

‘Am I to be an auntie, again?!’

Husam looked away at her question, his face a carefully controlled mask, and said nothing. He had eaten hurriedly after that, thanking her briefly for the meal, then gone out to work in the small communal garden. Laylah and Ihab, unconcerned with their father’s abrupt departure, chattered on merrily with Qamar’s children, then followed in his wake to the clearing in the center of the camp, dragging their cousins out for a game of sticks and hoops.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

‘You look awful!’

Qamar’s voice cut through the heavy thoughts that ran through Qirfah’s mind that morning. She had had no sleep, but had lain awake what little of the night was left, replaying the image of Ahmad as he passed her in the darkness.

His presence had stirred her memories of him, which if truth be told, were never far from her. She felt caught in the trap of her little life. And she could not see her way free from it.

She looked up at her sister, her face ashy, eyelids red from lack of sleep and hastily wiped away tears. Qamar crouched down close to her, her hand sweeping a stray lock behind her sister’s ear. My sweet big sister. How I hate to see you sad. Qamar sighed at the question she saw in Qirfah’s eyes. Oh, do not ask me, heart of my heart. How can I deny you?

‘Qamar,’ her sister began, her voice ragged with sadness, ‘please, will you help me?’

[ June 25, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Durelin]

It is around noon in the game.

The cold, damp feeling pressing against her skin was distant, almost the sense of another person completely. Any pain from the pressure or sting from the chill existed outside the mind, outside of her existence. The stones she lay on were barely visible to her, though her eyes were wide, and she did not look for them. Emotions and thoughts hovered beyond reach, and she did not try to touch them. It all felt so wonderful, the freedom of floating in nothingness, the separation from all worldly disadvantages, all worldly troubles.

Her body took in the air on its own accord, for its own survival, though she had no connection with it. She was mindful only of the flames that surrounded her, her self - being, her soul. They were flames, they caressed her with a soft, searing chill, but they were black as the starless sky, blacker even than the darkness that surrounded her mind, cutting off the thoughts and feelings and life of the world. She lay there for what seemed ages passing by, ages of such pleasure. She was scarecly aware of thoughts crawling through the darkness, penetrating the seal over her. But her thoughts continued to hover outside, cut away from her.

These thoughts had no connection to her, but they came to her, were able to pass into her. She cherished them, for all they were not hers, they were thoughts at least, and from somewhere she had always wished to go. They felt as life giving as a breath of air, though they stung her mind as gasious air would sting her lungs. One by one they came and left. Then, with the passing of another into non-existence, they stopped seething through the dark shell.

She screamed in agony at the loss and reached out, groping through the black flames, searching for those thoughts, the air she breathed that gave her life. She couldn't see her arm or hand, couldn't feel them lifting, yet she knew that she was getting closer to those thoughts. All at once she felt the very tips of her fingers, and in an eruption of loss, the flames and darkness left her, the seal vanished, and all thoughts, feelings, emotions rushed back into her head, all in a moments time. The returning of awareness of her flesh brought a slam of pressure upon her like a ton of stone. She cried out a long howling note of pure anguish at her loss of freedom, pleasure, ecstasy.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Sevora lay prostrate on the black stones of a small rectangular chamber in the Citadel, her long robes flowing about her. The chill of the cold stones on her flesh was not near as strong as when she had been surrounded by the dark void. The Void! She had been taken into the Void by her Lord, by the Great Eye, the lidless flame! He had spoken to her in the Void, bringing great honor to her. Now she was sure that the Eye would be with them on this mission, with them in their very hearts and minds. He could pull her into the Void of His own accord. He was getting stronger, and Sevora along with him. Her laughter bubbled with cold mirth. She was getting stronger and stronger. This mission would bring much reward and power.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Her newly adorned light brown robes swished around her soft - booted feet as she glided down the black stone steps once more out to the courtyard of the Dark Citadel, Rahvin at her side, Naramarth and Dristi behind her, all three also wearing rugged brown. Sevora actually smiled at the sight of her warriors, but not because of their presence. She pulled her dark brown veil over her face to hide her smile, covering all but a small slit where her dark eyes peered out of, burning with a fierce light, cold without a trace of the mirth she felt. Those eyes moved to look above her at the bright sun at its highest point in the sky, burning rays beating down on the stone and Haradrim without relent. She brought her gaze back to trail lazily across the people standing before her.

"We move southeast, the noon sun searing our bodies. Do you know why its rays scorch us? Because the Eye looks down on us, His burning gaze speeding us on our mission, giving us hope and strength! I have been into the Void, and He has shown me what it is like to be in His presence. We now are held in His praise for our devotion. Open yourself to the Great Lord and do His will, and perhaps He will bring you to stand before Him, giving you much pleasure." She stood still before them, showing no signs of her great emotion except the heat in her voice. Suddenly she let out a laugh, a wheezing, strangled chuckle that sounded painful, wrenching out of her throat as if she had been holding it in too long.

"We will bring the life everlasting to the tribes people, and bring the everlasting, tormented death to those who will not bow to the Lord. There screams will sing to us till our death, singing us to sleep in the arms of the Lidless Eye, where we will be given life eternal."

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

The short shadows of noon left no freedom from the scorching of the sun, the gaze of the Eye, as the servants left the Citadel to do their lord's will with pleasure.

[Helkahothion]

"Open yourself to the Great Lord and do His will, and perhaps He will bring you to stand before Him, giving you much pleasure."

"What, he is going to tickle us? Great pleasure my nose."

Thorgom loaded the cart with the supplies in quit. These people seemed not to like him. It was a good thing, he didn't like them too. The supplies were in the cart. The priestess came towards the cart and took place. The man next to him bowed. Thorgom raised his eyebrow instead. One of the priestess' looked at him in disbelieve. For some reason, Thorgom felt the heat increasing. He went to his own bag and took out his water. He drank some and threw some across his face. He glanced at one of the priestess'. She was beautiful in Thorgom's opinion.

His eyes followed her around. It made her feel unpleasant, Thorgom could see that. But he did not care. She was easy on the eye [mod edit], and it was a long time since Thorgom saw a woman as pretty as this one.

The caravan started moving and Thorgom jumped on the back of one of the carts. He just sat back and enjoyed the weather.

Although it was mostly hot, he still enjoyed it. His skin was brown all the time and the colour only grew darker as time passed.

They rode down the streets. Thorgom looked around and saw few people. He did not care either. He jumped of the cart and started to walk alongside the pretty priestess. She looked dead ahead of her and did not look at the man running alongside of her. Thorgom got depressed and one of his throwing axes flew away. Six feet later they found it sticking in a three. While running past, Thorgom pulled it out. Still she was not looking. He went back and sat on the back of the cart again. Pouting.

[ June 25, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Ealasaid]

CHANI -- Ahmad's Sister

Chani pulled her robes closer around herself and walked quickly out of camp. She had seen her mother disappear into her tent with Jamilah, her friend from the Baobab tribe. She had also noticed that Jamilah carried a baby basket. The sight of it, though it was a truly beautiful thing, made Chani ill. She knew it was intended for her as an important part of her wedding trousseau, but she wanted no part of it. Let Shushila marry Yusef! she thought bitterly. She seems to fancy him. As for herself, Chani found her future husband angry and irritable, contemptuous of her all of the time, as though she had offended him somehow. He frightened her. The last thing in the world she wanted was to have a child with him. She quickened her step as she moved through the tall prairie grasses.

In the distance, she could hear the noises of the tribe's grazing horses. If only there were a way for her to take a horse -- just one -- she could get away. She would ride north to one of the great northern cities she had heard about and lose herself there, Dol Amroth or Minas Tirith. No one would find her there. She smiled to herself, envisioning herself astride one of the sleek horses, riding like a goddess ahead of the wind. She laughed out loud. If only, if only... She was being childish, and she knew it, but the stubborn side of her refused to release the dream. If her parents couldn't make Ahmad take a wife, then how could they force her to take a husband? It wasn't right.

She walked along through the grasses, thinking hard, when suddenly she burst forth into a clearing. She stopped short and looked around. The clearing was full of young people and children, Baobabs by the look of them, and they seemed to be building a camp. Looking around for adults, she saw none. A tall young woman with a distant look about her eyes seemed to be the one in charge, and she was attended by a small boy. Chani stared at her curiously. It was the same young woman who had accosted her and her sister the previous day on the border of her tribe's encampment. While Chani had been interested to discover what the girl had wanted, Shushu had been a goose, as usual, and pulled her away, whimpering about something. Her curiosity getting the better of her, Chani stepped forward into the camp. As she did so, all the activity of the Baobab young people stopped.

[Nerindel]

The noon sun was now beating down heating their backs and the black stone of the citadel courtyard as Ghurdan reflected the events of the previous night. After Sevora, Dristi and Naramath had issued their orders and left, he had brought out the chest and gathered his men together, "Desert wear any one!" he had laughed as he throw open the trunk. The fifteen men had also burst out laughing as they saw their own clothes. they had grabbed at the pale browns, greens and sand colours of light trousers and shirts. "You are free to go, but be back here at first light and make ready to leave, Dismissed!" he had told them.

Once his men had left he had went to find Zasfal. He found The younger man packing his gear. "Where's your friends" he had scoffed looking around, "Packing I should think " he had replied off handily shrugging his shoulders. "And!" Ghurdan had urged him impatiently, Zasfal didn't stop packing but answered "They have worked for the eye before" "Ah! but who hasn't" Ghurdan had laughed, "But did be brag, like so many of his kind usually do." Zasfal nodded and proceeded to tell the captain all that had passed between them. "So do you think he was embellishing?" Ghurdan had asked, "No!" was Zasfal's only reply.


Just then Ghurdan had seen Sammael and Damodred cross the courtyard looking in their direction. "It looks like your cover is blown" he had said nodding in the direction of the pair. Zasfal had looked up and looking at the two men he smiled, then nodded to them. "Not at all, they will no doubt have their suspicions but as yet nothing I have told them has been a lie and they were fool enough not to ask anything about me, if they had asked I would have told them, for it would be impossible to hide our...er...relationship for very long!" he told the captain returning to his packing. " Good" Ghurdan had replied approvingly.

As Ghurdan had made to leave, Zasfal 's gruff attempt at an apologetic voice had reached his ears "I apologise for the uniforms" Ghurdan had burst out laughing, he had totally forgotten that they were Zasfal's idea, "Don't worry about that, they served their purpose all be it not the same purpose you had in mind." " Make sure you are dressed appropriately tomorrow. I have dismissed the crew and ordered them to be back here at first light to make ready, that order applies to you too!"

Ghurdan had then left Zasfal and went to the city to get a room for the night. Nothing much had happened that morning, the crew were waiting for him when he had arrived back at the citadel, Zasfal with them. Ghurdan had been pleased to see that all of them where now dressed appropriately. They spent the entire morning packing and preparing for the journey, Ghurdan issuing orders here and there and the crew following them without question.

As the sun beat on his back he surveyed his crew, Each man now carried a heavy pack and was ready to leave. He himself was dressed in light airy sand coloured trousers, brown boots and a tunic of light greens and browns, in his pack was a cloak of the same light sand colouring, his head and face was covered, so that only his dark eyes showed. As he turned he saw the priestesses group gliding down the steps once more, they too had changed their black and red robes for the browns of the desert. He listened intently as she spoke, Nothing she said surprised him in the least.

As the priestesses party lead the way Ghurdan, Zasfal and the Fifteen men of his crew followed silently at first, but as they left the main part of the city they started to talk quietly amongst themselves.

Zasfal nudged Ghurdan in the side, he scowled at the young man then followed his gaze. He saw the old man that had grabbed his arm the night before, he was practically leering at the Priestess Dristi, both he and Zasfal burst out laughing "One hour! before she puts the old man in his place" Zasfal spluttered out between laughs, "Nay, I say longer , she is of the order and she should have more restraint than most" he said raising his eye brow at the young man. "Fifty silver" he replied. Ghurdan laughed again but took up Zasfals wager. "And what say you" Zasfal asked Sammael and Damodred, who he had heard coming up behind them.

[Helkahothion]

Thorgom sat easily on the back of the cart. The man behind him were laughing and placing bets over something. He betted it was stupid. He saw the man which arm had had clinched on. He was a lot younger than himself. Thorgom now stared laughing. The caravan looked at him with raised eyebrows. They knew the tribesmen were crazy, but this man must have been the biggest fool of them all. Thorgom did not mind. He just noticed the clothes they were wearing. Thorgom was not. He had clothes of his own and never had any others. They would have to do a lot if they wanted him to wear such an outfit. They all looked like a bunch of lunatics. The sight amazed people in the streets. A cart with the high priestess' and a big man on the back laughing. The stupid look of the man and women in the street only made Thorgom's laughing louder.

Still the priestess did not look back. Thorgom got annoyed by this and started walking alongside the cart again. He did not look at her. He decided to ignore her as much as she did him. Thorgom just walked and looked in front of him. But the strong look of the woman that was pinned down on the horizon gave the man another laughing fit. He stopped dead and laughed again. It was a happy day. Normally he hardly laughed, but being on your own does not give you much to laugh about. The group passed him and they all looked as if they saw some sort of insect. The looks they gave him was a huge nuisance to the man. All of the men were carrying packs. Not Thorgom though. He just carried his own things and refused to take anything else. Ghurdan was annoyed by this fact.


"Why don't you carry something just like everyone else?" Zasfal said

"I'm not everyone else. I have my own stuff and am not causing you any trouble. I'm not going to carry other people's supplies."

"Not even the supplies of that pretty priestess you are stalking?" Zasfal said taunting.

In an immediate reaction Thorgom took out an axe and whacked Zasfal in the face with the backside. The boy fell on the ground and was pulled up by Ghurdan. Zasfal's eyes shot fire at Thorgom, the big man was imcredebly mad.

"You be lucky that axe is not double sided. It would have done a lot of damage to that face of yours. Be careful with what you say to me. I might be old, but I am still more then enough to rip you in pieces."

With these words, Thorgom went back to the cart and started to walk alongside of it once more. It appeared that the women on the cart had not noticed the little incident. But Thorgom could be mistaking. There was something about them he could not describe. Something mysterious.

[ June 28, 2003: Message edited by: Helkahothion ]

[Arien]

Dristi walked at a steady pace behind Sevora. Her hood cast over her face, shadowing her appearance from the rest. As they walked the dust from the ground slowly rose into the humid are. Minute sweat beads clung to her perfect complexion, the heat of her cloak was suffocating her as the hot sun beat down, but she did not take it off. Instead she kept walking in a steady beat her eyes gazing straight ahead past Sevora.

As the day lengthened the sun beat down her rays even more. Punishing them with her light. Dristi did not believe as Sevora did, the sun was not the Eye. The sun was a far too feeble form for someone of such greatness to take. No, the sun was a maiden, Arien, who could not be tempted to evil, a weak pathetic fool she was. Dristi had learned of her in her studies cursing her and vowing her life to darkness. She gazed up into the sun, burnt by her heat. She then lifted her hand to her hood and removed it, her hair flowing down to her back.

As she did this she noticed a man walking beside her, but her sight did not sway from its position. She did not care from tribesmen, she could tell it was a tribesman from what her wore. Pathetic really. Trying to impress her. She then heard laughing and faint whispers caught her ears.

"One hour! before she puts the old man in his place"

Ha, one hour. He would have no place if here persisted to annoy her. Dristi’s hand slowly moved towards the dagger, clenching her fist around it. Mind you she did like to play with them, men that was. Always fools, being subdued by her then ending up killed, it was just funny.

She laughed in her head, and kept walking on.

[ July 08, 2003: Message edited by: Arien ]

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Jasara was snapped back out of her thoughts by the sudden silence that had enveloped the young. Jasara looked around, searching for the cause of the absolute hush. Then she saw what it was: the Painted Sand girl from the evening before. The girl stood there, looking around the encampment.

Chani, said the voice. Jasara nodded, and her movement brought everyone else in the tribe back to life. Children who were hardly taller than their bows notched an arrow and pointed towards Chani. Najah drew her sword with skill and grace, but Nasir was still. Chani looked suddenly frightened to the bone, but seemed frozen in place by something.

"Shoot on my command," ordered Najah in a hoarse whisper so that Chani would not hear.

No! She can be used! Bait, ransom, trade, this girl has many uses if you capture her! Don't kill her! Tie her up!

The voice roared at Jasara, making the leader of the young wince. But Jasara knew better than to disobey the power inside of her. So she lifted a hand to Najah, and Najah ordered her bowmen...bowchildren...to stand down. Jasara walked slowly over the hot terrain that seperated her from Chani. On her way, Jasara discreetly picked up a few lengths of rope that Khasia had woven.

"Chani, is it not?" asked Jasara, shattering the silence. Chani nodded, and backed away a few steps as Jasara neared her.

Smart girl. But not smart enough.

Jasara snickered inwardly at the voice's words. "Now, now, Chani. There is no need to be frightened. The Elders are meeting in your tribe, and they will not find out if you feast with us tonight."

"I best be getting home," mumbled Chani. Without another word the girl broke out into a sprint away from the camp. Jasara was quicker, however. Najah grinned evilly and joined Jasara in tying Chani up to the nearest tree.

"This will be your new home," said Jasara wickedly, using one of Nasir's old gloves to gag Chani and keep her quiet. Jasara turned, clapped once, and the young returned to work. Nasir glared at Jasara unapprovingly, but then got to work teaching a few children how to use the bow.

"Rijal! Go now and tell the second-in-command of the Painted Sand young to prepare. We will save them from the cursed elders soon," Jasara ordered, spitting once on Chani before walking off to the stream.

[piosenniel]

Qirfah and Qamar

‘Qamar,’ her sister began, her voice ragged with sadness, ‘please, will you help me?’

So, here it was, the request she dreaded. Qamar sat down next to her sister, and taking her cold hand in cupped it to her own cheek. ‘Heart of my heart, I suppose there is no way of talking you out of this, is there?’

Qirfah shook her head ‘no’. She looked not at her sister but out toward the baobab tree. Qamar waited, and her sister’s next words fell heavily into the silence between them. ‘He was here last night. In the darkness as I stood lost in thought in the shadows of the tree, he passed me by. So close I could have reached out to touch him. He went to my tent and stood there for a space of time. I half feared he would enter in to find me and would wake Husam. But he only touched the flap and then departed.’

She drew her knees up under her chin and clasped her arms around them tightly. ‘These two years that we have kept apart have not diminished my memories of him. Now they have all come back, and I would go to him. But I cannot see my way to do it.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘Husam is a good man, and a good father. But that is not enough for me.’ Qirfah rocked slowly back and forth, her gaze still fixed on some distant object. ‘I wish him no harm or sadness. What shall I do?’

‘You cannot shield him from sadness. That will come naturally.’ And in fact, already has, if I read his mood aright this morning. she thought to herself. ‘I’ll think of something. Let me see what I can do.’ She pulled her sister to her feet and pushed her toward her tent. ‘Go! Get some sleep. There is the rest of the day to get through. Your children will need the full presence of their mother.’

*+*+*+*+*+*

While Qirfah slept, Qamar sorted through the baskets she had made, and put on the finishing touches to several that were nearly done. As her quick fingers laced the edgings round their rims, her thoughts fell into place with each tight pull on the final strand. ‘There!’ she murmured to herself in a satisfied manner, pulling the last inch through and hiding the end beneath the others.

Tomorrow she would go to the little trading fair set up in the Painted Sands encampment. She would see her old friends, and they would play the game of bargaining for goods that she so enjoyed. And she would seek out Ahmad, and speak with him.

[Lyra Greenleaf]

Sammael walked quietly in the heat of the sunlight. He could feel Damodred’s presence just behind his left shoulder but felt no need for conversation. He was thinking deeply about the coming journey. Currents ran deep and strong between the members of the party and he had no wish to drown in the parched desert. He grinned to himself at the thought. Even my serious thoughts do not remain serious overlong! he thought lightly.

He realised that many thought him a fool. Zasfal, for example, and the charming sea captain. Zasfal had been planted to discover any secrets which Sammael would be foolish enough to blurt out- well he was welcome to what he had got and more if he wished. There was history between the sea captain and the Priestess, although that display yesterday had been as baffling as it was enlightening. As if that was not enough the tribesman they were taking along was apparently trying to catch the attention of the other priestesses. Now there’s a fool if any man is one, Sammael pondered.
I just hope that it does not go too far. A Priestess of the Eye, her clothes still bearing traces of blood is a truly foolish target no matter how beauteous she is, and we could do with as little killing as possible on our own side.

The team of acrobats had changed from their ridiculous attire into more normal desert wear. Another interesting development had been that the Priestess Sevora had put him in joint charge of the troops with the sea captain. Perhaps someone had been watching his sign of devotion to the Eye, perhaps she had seen better than most that Sammael was no man’s fool, or perhaps it was simply to annoy the sea captain. Whatever the reason it was a golden opportunity. A slow grin spread over Sammael’s face. It had not escaped his attention that this set him over Zasfal.

"One hour! before she puts the old man in his place" Zasfal said in front of him. Following the man’s gaze Sammael saw that the strange tribesman had continued his efforts.
"Nay, I say longer , she is of the order and she should have more restraint than most" the sea captain answered.
"And what say you?" Zasfal asked, turning to Sammael with a smile that was as false as ever.
Sammael put his hand to his head as if to consider. “I say that you should not talk so of your- employers. ” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Especially if they may be listening to you” he whispered with a nod towards the priestess whose hand tightened visibly on her dagger at the sound of their wager. “And Zasfal, I must say your acrobats look far better out of uniform”

With a laugh Sammael tipped his head to the two men and increased his pace. The woman with big eyes and delusions of fighting was ahead, walking alone. And she had none of the power of the priestess. What she did have was secrets.
Wouldn’t it be amusing to find out what? Sammael considered. I wonder how I should approach it? She seems immune to my smile but who knows, many a woman has fallen for it before!

--------------------------------

Essenia heard the sound of quickening footsteps behind her with little emotion. She still felt detached from what was in her head and body. The beating sun barely registered and neither did the hand on her shoulder. Turning she saw the man with no hair. It would have made little difference if it was the man with curly hair. All men were fools. Essenia was grateful that there were women on this journey. The priestesses had power, influence and respect. They were lucky, no man would follow them. They would need no man. She thought exultantly of the life she would lead in such a position. She had seen the dried blood on their hands and faces and wondered if they had done the killing themselves.

It had been a while since she felt the power of taking life, watching as blood left the body and light faded from its eyes. Too long, in fact. Hopefully this would give her the chance. They were supposed to convert the tribes to the Dark Religion, she had been told, and only kill those who resisted. Her blood boiled at the order. If they converted, they would keep their land. This was supposed to be about getting more territory, more influence for the Haradrim. They were not going to deny her the chance. They would not.

“-that”
The word floated dimly into Essenia’s consciousness. The man walking beside her had stopped talking and was looking at her, clearly expecting a response. Essenia didn’t know or care what he had said. He could wait forever. She would get her chance to kill again, for the glory of Umbar. She breathed deeply, almost catching the tang of fresh spilt blood. Almost. They would not deny her.

[Nerindel]

"I say that you should not talk so of your- employers. "
"Especially if they may be listening to you"

Ghurdan smirked, but said nothing, So this young man is not as foolish as Zasfal believes him to be he thought as he followed Sammael's nod to the priestess Dristi.

Zasfal's mouth went dry as he saw the priestess tighten her grip on her dagger, a million thoughts rushed through his head, did she hear them, would she kill them..... but before he could sort any of them out he heard Sammael again,

"And Zasfal, I must say your acrobats look far better out of uniform."

He could feel the fear and doubt leave him instantly, as the anger welled inside him, he gritted his teeth and felt his hand tighten about his own sword. He slowly turned to Sammael to see him tip his head, laugh and walk off. His cheeks flush with rage he stalked off to the rear or the cart.

Ghurdan watched the encounter with feigned interest. The taunt did not affect him in the slightest, but he had been a little annoyed when Sevora had ordered that he share command of his crew with the young man, but the annoyance was fleeting, he thought it would be interesting to see how his crew would react under the leadership of another.

Meanwhile Zasfal's heavy pack was weighing him down and the heat of the blazing sun searing his flesh made him more irritable, he nearly walked into the old tribesman as he stopped dead and burst out laughing. Crazy old coot! he thought to himself, then he noticed that Thorgom's pack was lighter than his.

"Why don't you carry something just like everyone else?" he said irritably.

"I'm not everyone else. I have my own stuff and am not causing you any trouble. I'm not going to carry other people's supplies." was the mans only reply.

Zasfal's face reddened, "Not even the supplies of that pretty priestess you are stalking?" he spat venomously.

Zasfal didn't know what hit him his eyes blurred and he found himself on the ground, the side of his face throbbing. As his eyes readjusted he saw the large tribesman towering over him, he then felt someone pull him to his feet. His eyes burned with rage when he saw the axe in Thorgoms hand and realised what had happened.

"You be lucky that axe is not double sided. It would have done a lot of damage to that face of yours. Be careful with what you say to me. I might be old, but I am still more than enough to rip you to pieces."

As the old man turned away, Zasfal's hand went to the black hammer that was tucked in his belt, but before he could pull it out he felt Ghurdan's heavy hand on his shoulder. "Take up with the rear guard" Ghurdan whispered in the agitated man's ear, but Zasfal continued to stare at the olds man's back, "That's an order!" Ghurdan growled impatiently. Letting go of his hammer and affording the sea captain a curt nod he reluctantly made his way to the rear of the caravan.

Ghurdan wiped the sweat from his brow, At this rate I will be needing a new first mate before we get back, he thought to himself. He intended to keep the young man there until he calmed down and thought on how foolish he had been.

He looked around, they were now on the outskirts of the city, there was a scattering of small wooden huts and a small herd of scruffy looking goats watched their passing nervously. Raising his hand to shield his eyes he looked up, the sky was cloudless and he could see that the sun had risen higher. As he looked back down he could see the hazy outline of the desert just ahead.

"You, You, You and You, follow me" he barked picking out Four of his fittest men. picking up the pace he and the four men, passed Thorgom, then Sammael, Damodred and Essenia. He then positioned two men either side of the front of the cart, then he turned to Sevora and asked "In what direction do you wish us to travel ma'lady?" he asked affording the priestess a short nod, but he did not lower his eyes, no! he would not make that mistake again.

[ June 28, 2003: Message edited by: Nerindel ]

[Tinuviel of Denton]

A small village on the route to the tribes. The day before.

“My lord father?” asked the young woman kneeling before him.

Abdul-Shihab frowned at his eldest daughter, Falia. As usual, she was dressed in the loose caftan of a boy, without the veil of modesty unmarried women wore. Her hair was braided to keep it out of the way, and her only concession to her gender was in the colorful embroidery on her caftan, though even that was little enough. Frankly, it amazed him that his first wife, docile as she had been, had produced this… this… hoyden. Falia was strong-willed, defiant, everything her mother had not been. Whether this was due to something in her blood, from her mother’s side naturally, or something to do with the women who’d raised her when her mother died, Abdul-Shihab knew not. What he did know was that she was blight to the honor of his family name, and somehow, he would have to be rid of her.

Falia looked up at her father, and moaned inwardly. He was frowning, which likely meant a beating. Not that that was unusual. She was used to it and in fact would have been surprised if a day had gone by when he didn’t beat her. She smiled a little, hoping to appease him, and perhaps he would not beat her too severely, though that was a faint hope at best. Sometimes she wished that she’d died in the raid that took her mother. Surely d*ath was preferable to the scorn and torment she suffered each day. But there were good things as well. The goats she tended for instance. They at least judged her for what she did for them, not out of any preconceived notions about how she should behave, or what was “proper.”

“My lord father?” she asked again. Anaya (she refused to call her father’s second wife ‘Mother’) had sent her to bring him for dinner, and that was what she’d do. Even if he beat her for it. It was ridiculous, really. Anaya was twenty, only two years older than Falia herself, though she was aged beyond her years by the number of children and the amount of work Abdul-Shihab had laid upon her. They’d been married seven years and already Falia had three half-brothers and two half-sisters.

****

The village of Budur was small, out of the way, and precisely fit the idiom, “Don’t blink, or you’ll miss it.” Indeed, one could almost think that the saying had actually come from Budur, silly as that may be. Everyone knew everyone else, which partially explained why Falia was so hard for her father to be rid of. She had frightened away all of the young men with her wild (for a g*rl, anyway) ways, and her unfeminine ideas. Why, the g*rl actually thought that she could protect her father’s flocks as well as any boy. Actually, Falia did a better job through having to prove her right to be out in the fields to begin with than most of the boys did with their fathers’ herds.

There was a perfunctory shrine to the Eye in the middle of the town by the well, but no one really paid any mind to it. After all, the Eye didn’t really have anything to do with the business of raising goats. Did it? If anyone ever did worship the Eye with more fervor than usual, he or she was promptly sent to Umbar to join the priesthood, and the family was usually thought to incur blessing that way. Other than that, religion had very little to do with life in that sleepy little town.

[Ealasaid]

JAMILAH & BRIELLAH

Jamilah's eyes scanned the face of her friend. "Is there a leader among your young ones? Does some voice speak to them?"

Briellah's face darkened. She had heard something along those lines from her husband. Yes... the boy who was to be executed. She nodded gravely. "They had a leader, a boy from the Rain clan. His name was Fouad. They say he heard a voice in a stone that told him things, told him what to do. We thought it was a kind of madness that took him, that is until the other children and young people began to follow him." She raised her intricately tattooed hands in despair. "The boy killed his cousin in cold blood, not three nights past. They will execute him today."

She glanced out the opening of the tent at the bright sunlight. Was it yet noon? If so, the boy was already dead. "My husband believes there will be violence as a result. The young ones already wear their weapons already like a challenge. They are like dry tinder. All they need is a spark to set them into flame."

Deeply troubled, Jamilah nodded. A spark like Jasara, perhaps?

************************************************** ****************

CHANI

Finding herself securely bound to the tree in the camp of the young ones of the Baobab tribe, Chani looked around herself with wide eyes. Perhaps Shushila had not been such a goose after all to have been afraid of these people. For the first time, Chani feared for her life. The tall girl, Jasara, she thought she had heard the others call her, had actually spit on her as she passed. Why they had not killed her already, she was not sure, but she had a feeling that unless she managed to find a way to escape, she would never have to worry again about her unwanted marriage. She would not be alive. Her captors had crammed an old glove in her mouth to keep her from screaming or calling out, and it tasted like salt and old sweat. She worked it around between her teeth and, finally, managed to spit it out, but she did not speak or even make a sound. Bound as she was, that would be the quickest way to get the nasty thing pushed right back in.

Blindly, she tested the rope that bound her wrists with her fingers. The knot was tight, but the woven fiber of the rope itself seemed loose in one place. Perhaps if she picked at the fibers, she could work her way through it. She was lucky... the weaving was not the work of an expert hand. Careful not to move a muscle other than those of her dextrous fingers, she watched the activities of the camp unfold before her. The children seemed surprisingly well-organized. Having been divided into groups, some worked at setting up the camp, while others prepared food for the camp's midday meal. The rest of them, to Chani's horror, worked at their skills with weapons, with a special emphasis, she noticed, on the kill. Behind her, the tips of her fingers had already grown raw from the roughness of the rope. Soon, they would begin to bleed, but still she worked stubbornly away at the fibers.

Near her, a young girl of about ten, tended one of the cooking fires. Chani noticed that every now and again the girl would toss her a glance over her shoulder, her expression one of both nervousness and sympathy. Chani decided to press her luck and speak to the girl.

"What is your name?" she asked softly.

The girl looked up quickly, alarm in her face. "You mustn't speak!" she whispered. "Jasara will hear you."

Ignoring the girl's warning, Chani tilted her head in the direction of the tall girl who had spit on her dress. "Is that Jasara?" she asked. "Is she your leader?"

Wide-eyed, the girl nodded. "She is the voice of the Eye."

Inwardly, Chani frowned. The Eye. Fouad, before he had stabbed his cousin, had spoken to her once of a lidless eye in the North country, one that possessed great power and would foment great change, change that would wash in on a current of blood. She had laughed it off at the time, thinking Fouad had gone a bit loopy from the heat, but to hear that the same influence had seized control of the Baobab young, sent a chill down her spine. Knitting her brows, Chani tried to recall the rest of the conversation. He had said much, but she remembered clearly that Fouad had also told her that the day of the Elders was over. The young would decide the way of the future. Thinking of Yusef, Chani suddenly smiled at the girl.

"I know of the Eye," she said quietly, a new light glittering behind her dark eyes. "My good friend Fouad told me of its power. Tell your Jasara that I wish to join your band. Tell her that I have skill with a sword."

The girl got up from her crouch before the fire and stood for a moment before Chani, as though trying to decide whether or not to believe her.

[Arien]

She pulled the loose hair from her face, as the harsh, sand filled wind whipped it across her face again. They were now near the out skirts of the city, she looked back to it. The dark Citadel loomed over the narrow streets, casting along shadow over the city. A permanent reminder that the Dark Lord was always present, and that he always watched the city. They came out of the city gates, which were surrounded by small hut, animals and such things. It was untidy, the people there living in squalor. The sun still burnt bright in the sky, and clouds were all but gone. It was going to be a cold night.

"In what direction do you wish us to travel ma'lady?" asked one of the men as he nodded to Sevora. She looked at him for a few moments as the company halted. Then put her hand against her forehead, shielding her eyes from the sun and looked around.

“I shall travel south,” she replied the man nodded, and obviously had no indication of what Sevora had answered him. As he began to walk back to his position Dristi spoke softly.

“And in which direction do wish us to travel in Sevora?” Dristi was irate by the fact Sevora thought she was the only one with power. Ha! ‘I shall travel south!’. The man stopped, shocked at Dristi. “Maybe stay here? While you do all the work, oh high priestess.” she continued in a mocking tone, “Or did you not realise the little circus you have travelling behind you?”

“You dare!” hissed Sevora. Yes, she did dare. She wasn’t scared of her, she wasn’t the high priest and she never would be. Just because she was chosen to lead, did not mean she neglected her fellows, and discard them as a piece of useless baggage. She would not last a day against those animals in the tribes without their help. She would need the rest of them. So no doubt she would have to respect them. “Dristi I will deal with you soon.” she continued. The solider still stood there gazing at the two. Dristi turned to him sharply.

“Yes?” she snarled, “May I help you?” Her eyes burned, and the wind continued to blow across her beautiful , but evil face.

“No…” he said and walked back.

“We continue south!” Sevora shouted and they continued onwards.

[piosenniel]

A spark . . .

Jamílah rose from her mat and closed the tent flap, throwing the interior into a half-light from the small opening at the top where the smoke of the cooking fire could drift out. There was no fire lit now, and motioned Briellah to sit close to her.

‘For several months now, there have been growing signs of unrest in the north. Our tribe does not travel that far north to trade, but often we meet with others who bring back herbs and other goods that we desire. Trade has grown scarce over these months with the north, or so they have told me. Fewer groups come south down the Harad Road from the cities of the pale skinned men, and fewer come in by way of the Great Sea, from Umbar.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘And I have been told many times now that there are none that come south over the Mountains of Shadow. That is a dark, uneasy land now, and the shadows surrounding it grow thicker and obscure the sight.’

She fumbled at her waistband, untying the small leather pouch that hung there. ‘Over the last month, as I throw the bones each morning, there has been a darkness that hovers over them.’ She poured the small polished pieces of old, yellowed bone into her cupped hand, blew gently on them once, her lips moving in silence, then dropped them on the ground in front of her. They skittered on the rug, and she leaned over them, looking closely at the pattern.

‘The first throw is for ‘who’ or ‘what’ weaves the pattern for the day. Look here,’ she pointed out, her first finger ringing the larger cluster of bones. ‘This is a pattern which has been growing larger this last month. It is the pattern for ‘seeing’, like an eye, and these three bones near it indicate a burning fire.’

She picked up the bones and threw them once more. ‘And this throw is for ‘where’. See how they concentrate here and trail here? Something comes from the north and east toward us. I get no good feelings from it, only unrest and darkness. It pulls at us, and some have the strength to resist it, and some do not.’

Briellah’s face held worry and concern as she looked up at her friend. ‘There is no hope you see? How can we fight something we cannot see clearly?’ She shook her head. ‘We cannot fix this by killing off our own young. Is there a way to escape from this?’

Jamílah picked up the bones a last time. ‘I thought as I watched this pattern grow that we approached our end of days.’ She looked thoughtfully at Briellah. ‘We have a story of that time to come, but I thought it would not come in my lifetime.’ She scattered the bones again. ‘And perhaps it won’t. The third throw is for the 'outcome'. Look here.’ Her finger traced a ring around a tightly clustered grouping. ‘This is small now, but a little larger than it has been.’

‘What is it?’ asked Briellah quietly, trying to make some sense of the pointy looking pattern.

Her friend held up her left hand, pointing with her right to the tattoo there between her thumb and first finger. ‘It is a star, five-pointed, like this one. Shining out of the darkness.’

There was sound of footsteps approaching outside the door to the tent, and a discreet cough. ‘Jamílah! Faruq requests that you come now. We should leave soon and return to our camp. The warriors will return later in the evening to escort the rest of the trading party.’

‘A moment,’ she called back, ‘and I will be there.’ She gathered up the bones and secured the pouch once again at her waist. Briellah had given her a number of packets of herbs and she stored them in her carry basket. ‘May your daughter have many fine babies, Briellah. Give her my best wishes when you give her the cradle.’

Briellah rose to tie back the tent flap once again. The warm bright sun streamed in, dispelling the pall of fear and gloom their previous discussion had brought on. Jamílah paused, looking over the packets she had traded to her friend. A frown creased her brow. ‘Ah, I knew I had forgotten something. Here,’ she handed Briellah a small pottery bottle sealed tightly with a cork. It had been carefully wrapped in layers of cloth and lay at the bottom of her carry basket. ‘From the far south, where the sandy plains meet the area of dense trees. One of the tribes there gets this from a tree toad.’

‘Careful now,’ she cautioned as the other woman removed the cork and sniffed the acrid, heavy scent. ‘Do not let it touch your skin. Mix it carefully with the sticky resin from the tree I brought you. Then dip your arrows and blades lightly in it. It is a poison they use to paralyze and kill their foe.’

Briellah replaced the cork on the bottle and wrapped it securely, placing it safely out of the way. She rose and saw her guest to her traveling companions. She watched them as they headed west, and in the distance she could see Jamílah turn a last time and wave to her . . .

[ August 26, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Ealasaid]

As the counsel between the Painted Sand elders and the elders of the Baobab tribe broke up, Ahmad felt a light touch on his wrist. Looking down, he saw the dainty brown hand of his youngest sister Shushila. As usual, she was completely veiled except for her kohl-lined eyes, but there was fear in her eyes. She gave his wrist a second, more insistant tug.

"Ahmad," she whispered. "You must come with me."

Ahmad hesitated, glancing in the direction of his father. "Shushu," he answered her gently. "Our father summoned me to this counsel. I am assuming it was for a reason. It might be wise to find out what that reason is."

"No." Shushila's slender fingers closed around her brother's wrist. "You must come with me now."

He allowed her to lead him a short way off from the other men. "What is it, Shushila?"

"I can't find Chani."

Ahmad laughed. "So what else is new? You know how she is, always wandering off with her head in the clouds and her foot in a gopher hole."

"No, Ahmad, you must listen to me," insisted Shushila. "Our mother told us to attend to the men at the counsel, Chani and myself, but she saw Jamilah arrive with a baby basket for her wedding and took off instead into the grasses. She hasn't come back."

Ahmad's face grew serious. "How long has it been?"

Shushila shook her veiled head. "I don't know. Hours? How long have you been at counsel?"

"Have you searched the camp for her?"

She nodded. "As much as I can, but, Ahmad, I'm afraid! What if something has happened to her? How can I face our parents and tell them that I let her go. I was angry at her --" she paused lowering her voice "-- for how she treats Yusef."

Ahmad hid a half-smile at that. Shushila had had an eye for Yusef since she was six years old. Ahmad,himself, on the other hand, was more on Chani's side on that one. He neither liked nor trusted Yusef, yet found himself constantly in the man's company. He slipped a brotherly arm around Shushila's slim shoulders. "I'm sure nothing has happened to Chani. Let me have a quick word with our father, then I will go search for her. Which way did she go?"

"She went west, toward the Baobab camp."

[Nerindel]

Ghurdan

"I shall travel south" Sevora said Sharply. He nodded, choosing to ignore the fact that she had said I instead of we. He had come to expect such things from the self-assured priestess. He began to walk back to his position, but as he heard the younger priestess's whisper her disapproval, he stopped and looked back. As Drisi's voice rose, Ghurdan looked on in shock, not at the younger priestesses mocking tones but at the fact that Sevora had not instantly punished Dristi for her insolence.

Just then Dristi turned on him sharply. "YES?" she snarled, "May I help you?" her eyes burned with anger. "No..." he replied nonchalantly, but as he walked back to his position,making sure that he was well hid from the Priestesses view, an evil grin curled cruelly at his lips. An interesting journey indeed he thought.

He revelled in the various conflicts about him and the chaos they could inevitably bring. His dark thoughts once again turned to the two priestesses as he watched their silhouetted forms in the haze of the bright late afternoon sun, he wondered what Sevora had meant when she had told Dristi that she would deal with her later, What punishment would she exact on another of her order he thought stroking his scar thoughtfully.


*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*

Zasfal

Zasfal still fumed at the back of the caravan. The two men either side of him watched him suspiciously from the corner of their eyes, the crew of the fire spray did not think highly of their first mate, infact they thought him no more than a stinking, treacherous, worm. "How can you be watching for danger if you are watching me!" he snapped angrily. The two men shot him a dangerous look then went back to their guard.

A searing hot wind picked up, Zasfal pulled his scarf across his face and shielded his eyes with his hands to protect them from the whipping sands, as he looked out he could just make out the form of Ghurdan approaching the cart and addressing the Priestess, the caravan halted momentarily. "We continue south!" he heard the priestess Sevora shout. then they were moving again.

Zasfal frowned as he strained to see what was going on ahead, he hated rear guard, they were always the last to know what was going on and the first to be killed if attacked from behind, that was exactly why Ghurdan had put him there, a fit punishment for the ambitious man.

As Zasfal gave up, he saw Sammael grinning at him, his grin burn at Zasfal like a hot flame, but he forced himself to return a pleasant grin and nod of his own. "Oh, how I would love to wipe that grin from his face" he thought turning again to face forwards. He then laughed at his own thoughts "and get myself killed most like" he reconsidered as he again gained some self-control of his emotions. No, I shall just take the mans unspoken insults, after all we will need all the warriors we have to defeat any resistors he thought. He remembered the force the old tribesman had exacted on him, and he was old the young would surely be stronger he surmised.

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

Ralah clapped small hands over her mouth as she realized her error. Turning her back on the tied girl resolutely she prodded at the fire with a long stick. How could she? How could she have told this girl, this captive the name of their leader. Jasara would be so angry if she knew. Ralah looked up nervously, scanning the area for any who might have seen her slip. She shrunk back in terror as Khasia approached.

The older girl's eyes glittered as she looked at Ralah. Though she was barely any taller, Khasia was much stronger and faster than she, and Ralah held her ground under her angry stare.

"Be careful, Ralah. Those who betray us will be sent back to their mothers." Every word was barbed, as though Khasia knew how Ralah shivered at night in her bedroll. As though she heard her whispered doubts.

"I believe Jasara." Ralah said timidly, and then with more confidence in her voice, "And as I am dead to my mother, my mother is dead to me." She spit on the ground, and turned her back to Khasia. Khasia's eyes lit up with satisfaction. Ralah's doubts were leaving her, her commitment and her fear were growing. Khasia relished her fear. It was power, power that may someday bind Ralah to her and not Jasara. Knowing now that she would not be disturbed, Khasia stalked over to the tree where Chani was tied.

"Tell me, do the old keep you prisoner where you come from?" she asked, in little more than a whisper. Chani's eyes were narrowed with fear, but her mouth remained tightly closed. "Do they tell you lies? Do they force you to come and go as they please? Would they run your lives?" Uncertainty flickered through the girl's eyes and Khasia knew she'd struck a nerve. "Your life is yours alone to live." She said softly, a small smile hovering around the corners of your lips.

Her eyes fell on an old glove at Chani's feet, stained with dirt and saliva. She reached down to pick it up and turned it in one hand. "I think you lost this." she said, looking back at the captive girl. Though she still didn't speak, her face mirrored revulsion. Khasia smiled. "You'd better have it back then." She stuffed the glove into Chani's mouth, smiled again, and left to rejoin the others. She wanted to catch Najah, she could use a few lessons with the bow.

[Lyra Greenleaf]

Sammael grinned at the scowling Zasfal. He looked as if he had had a fight with his captain and been sent to the back of the party like a naughty child. With a nonchalant whistle Sammael quickened his pace, leaving Zasfal and his rear guard behind.

Currently they were travelling through desert land, full of patches of pale, wiry grass and parched looking shrubs. It was an inhospitable place, not to mention boring.

"Damodred" he said slowly, barely turning his head "How far is it until we get to where we are going? Much more of this blasted desert and I might end up like that weak minded tribesman, turning to the Priestesses for fun!"
The old man had grown up somewhere in this area. Sammael's geography was pretty hazy but he thought it had to be close.

"There's a village we'll get to in a while" Damodred answered. "Then depending on where the tribes are camped this year, I reckon it'd be two days journey. Perhaps less."

Sammael nodded distractedly, absent mindedly swiping at a bush. Then, with a muffled curse he put his hand to his mouth, where blood had appeared from a number of small cuts.
"It's enough to make you believe something doesn't want us around!" Sammael said, with a faint laugh. Somehow it seemed more forced than it had.

"How big is this village?" he asked Damodred. "Is there an inn? And most importantly how are the serving wenches?"
"Aye" Damodred said disparagingly. "There's an inn, with about three rooms. So unless you want to share with your friend Zasfal and his minions...?"

Listlessly Sammael returned to deadheading the meagre vegetation, this time with his belt knife. He took a certain vindictive pleasure watching branches fall to the ground. Time passed slowly in the desert, there was little conversation, or perhaps the oppressive air of the place made people talk quietly.

Sammael walked in a sort of a daze, little realising what went on around him until Damodred placed a hand on his arm to stop him. Eyes focussing, he saw the outskirts of a small village distantly through the heat haze. They looked to be about 4 miles distant, an hour's walk for every member of the party. He supposed safety meant they could not camp closer, for the sea captain was running around giving orders to prepare the area.

With a smile, Sammael let him. His heavy mood had all but disappeared now they were in sight of civilisation.

After having set up camp, the Priestess Sevora called the sea captain and Sammael to talk about what they would do now. It was agreed that the village would be a convenient place to get supplies and information, especially about the location of the tribes.

"The danger is that we may find it hard to get information from these country people. We need to be discreet." Ghurdan said. Sammael nodded consideringly.
"I know just the way" he said with a mischevious grin.

********

"No" Essenia shook her head violently, calm gone in a matter of seconds.
The man in front of her smiled wolfishly.
"It is your duty" he answered.

Essenia sighed, it was true that she had done this before, with success. It was also true that there was little she would not do for the sake of Umbar- but this? The idea sickened her. Flirting with men in return for help, information... she hated it with a passion. And the thought that they might actually touch her? Her skin crawled. Still she must do as she must. Reluctantly she nodded assent.

"Good" answered the man with the irritating grin, rubbing his hands briskly.
"Now I will go with her, as her brother of course, not a husband or our plan would have litle success"
"Zasfal" interrupted the older man Essenia had heard called Ghurdan.
"What?" asked the smiling man, smile fading. Essenia felt immense satisfaction at the sight.
"You look nothing like her. It should be Zasfal"

There was a heated exchange between the two men, which Essenia did not bother to listen to. She was led away by the man who seved the Priestess Sevora and given a dress from a bundle. Soon she was joined by a young curly haired man.
"I am Zasfal" he told her with a grin that as nearly as annoying as the other man's. "I am your brother. Your name is Zareena. We are travelling to seek the tribes to trade."

Essenia nodded again, loathing in her eyes.
"I am ready" she said quietly.

[Ealasaid]

CHANI

Chani spat the glove out as soon as Khasia turned to walk away. "You're very brave when your victim is bound to a tree," she sneered at the girl's retreating back. Her tribe was a warrior tribe, not basketweavers like the Baobab. She had been raised to use a sword since she was a small child and her pride had not been merely wounded by the other girl's insults... it had been outraged. The impulse she had felt a moment earlier to see if she might be allowed to join the group and escape her planned marriage to Yusef evaporated like a raindrop on hot stone. She knew that she could never follow these people, never join them. Where was their honor? If they planned to kill her, at least she could honor her family and die with dignity like a true Painted Sand woman. She raised her chin in defiance.

"How are you with a sword, basketweaver?" she demanded.

Silence fell across the camp as Khasia stopped in her tracks. Her back stiffened.

"You may scare these children, but you don't scare me," Chani finished calmly. All of the uncertainty she had felt earlier vanished in the face of the anger she felt at the dishonor these two girls, Jasara and Khasia, had dared to inflict upon her with their spitting and their dirty gloves. She was the daughter of Ishak bin Ishak, chief of the Painted Sand tribe. Who were they? And what had she done to incur their disdain? Nothing. Nothing but happen upon them by mistake. Their arrogance would have been comical if it weren't so infuriating.

Khasia turned back to face her, her eyes blazing. Chani met her gaze, eye to eye, her dark eyes smouldering with anger.

"How dare you speak to me with such disdain when you are the one tied to the tree," Khasia hissed, conscious of the eyes of all the camp watching her. "You should watch your mouth."

"You should behave more civilly to your guests," Chani answered. "Not like a coward and a bully. Yes, I am the one tied to a tree, but I would die before I inflicted a stranger, who had committed no sin against me, with such insults." Behind her back, Chani's fingers continued to work at the shredding fiber of the rope. She didn't trust any of them. The same madness that had taken Fouad had obviously taken hold of them. The sooner she freed her hands, the better.

[ July 05, 2003: Message edited by: Ealasaid ]

[Ealasaid]

AHMAD

Walking away from the counsel between the elders of his own tribe and those of the Baobab tribe, Ahmad felt heavy in his heart, as though the weight of a granite boulder had been laid across his shoulders. Once he had seen his little sister on her way back to their mother's tent, he had spoken with his father and learned why he and Yusef had been summoned to the counsel of elders. They had been chosen to be the delegates who would approach the rebellious young of the Painted Sand tribe, to talk to them, find out what they wanted. Ahmad had accepted the assignment without protest, just as he had accepted the abortive chore of taking the five gift horses north a few days earlier. At this stage, he doubted he would be able to accomplish anything. It was already too late, just as it had been with the horses. Whatever was going to happen, he had a feeling it had already begun. Maybe, if he had been given the chance to speak with Fouad, he might have been able to do something...but now? Now it was too late.

And there was this thing with Chani. While it was perfectly like her to wander off, she had never done it before when the tribe was in a time of crisis. Nor had she stayed gone for long. Usually, she turned up within an hour or so, having been to the stream to bathe, or to the place where the horses were kept. She was fond of the horses and often went to visit them. He would be sure to look for her there. Shushila would not have strayed that far in her search. Absently, he fingered the shard of obsidian that hung on the cord around his neck.

Why was all of this happening now, when Qirfah was so near?

Buried in thought, Ahmad cut through the market ground on his way to where the Painted Sand horses were set to graze. A lot of the Baobabs were there with their baskets and handcrafts on display for trade with members of his tribe. Ordinarily, he would have taken the time to look as the craftmanship of the Baobab tribe was legendary, but this time he hurried through, scarcely looking to one side or the other. It was only when the figure of a woman stepped out and barred his path that he stopped. For a fleeting instant his breath caught in his throat... Qirfah! But the thrill of the encounter vanished quickly. It was not she, but her sister Qamar, who blocked his passage. Remembering her well, Ahmad gave her a smile and a short bow.

"Qamar!" he said pleasantly. He was glad to see her, but the timing was bad. A sense of urgency haunted him over Chani's disappearance. Even so, an opportunity to gain news of, or even to speak of, Qirfah was a rarity. He couldn't tary and chat with Qamar as he would have liked, but he would not pass her by completely, either. "You are as beautiful as ever. How is your husband, Nasr?" He cast a quick glance around, only half looking for Nasr. His real hope was that Qirfah might be there as well. He may have promised not to seek her out, but a chance encounter in his own camp could hardly be held against him. "Did he accompany you?"

[piosenniel]

‘Qamar!’ Ahmad said pleasantly. ‘You are as beautiful as ever. How is your husband, Nasr?’ She watched him as his eyes darted quickly about the market area. ‘Did he accompany you?’

‘No, Nasr has not come with me today, Ahmad. He and Husam have gone hunting,’ she said drawing his attention back to her. ‘Nor has Qirfah come.’

She watched as his shoulders sagged for a brief moment at the reminder of Qirfah’s husband and then again at the confirmation that Qirfah was not here. Though he was polite to her, Qamar could tell he had something on his mind which drew his attention elsewhere and made him restless. Perhaps he would excuse himself and move on, she thought, leaving her the opportunity to tell Qirfah that he had not spoken about her . . . that perhaps last night’s visit had simply been some passing thing he’d done, to remind him that she was not his. Hope sprung in her at this thought. And was quenched when his robes shifted as he turned back to her and she caught a glimpse of the obsidian shard which hung about his neck.

Her hand reached out to touch the translucent splinter, eyes narrowing for a moment. With a sigh, she gave up her wishes for how this might end, and spoke in a low voice to him. ‘I can see that some other business presses on you, Ahmad. We will be here in the market place until early evening. Come see me then, if you wish . . . when you have time to listen and to give an answer.’ He looked at her, a frown creasing his face.

‘Qirfah dared not come. She has sent me . . . to speak with you. To let you know her wishes, to bring her yours.’

At that moment, a woman of the Painted Sands signalled to her. Holding up a flat, woven round tray and a carry basket, she called out the offer of a price for them, jingling the silver bracelets on her arms she had for trade. Qamar waved at her and smiled, ‘A moment, good lady. Our trade is almost finished here!’ She placed a small woven box she held into his hands. ‘Enjoy, good sir!’ she said loudly enough for others about to hear. Waving him off, she turned back to bargain with the woman.

[ July 06, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Nerindel]

Ghurdan marched on, his gaze never wandering far from the horizon ahead. His lips were dried and cracked under his scarf, but his eyes showed nothing of his discomfort. He glanced up shielding his eyes from the orange glare of the sun, as it now started to sink lower in the sky.

As he lowered his eyes again, he saw the dark form of the two priestesses and the priest in deep conversation. He looked out again over the horizon, in the hazy distance he could make out a small oasis village, Budur he thought. He had poured over maps of this area before he had left his ship, he remembered seeing an eye next to this village signifying that it was already under the eyes watchful gaze.

Just then he saw Rahvin jump down from the cart and head towards him. Rahvin was taller and lighter skinned than himself, but they were equally matched in strength. Rahvin's cold eye's locked with his as he approached. "Our Dark Mistress requires that you prepare the men to make camp" he informed him coldly. Ghurdan grinned under his scarf , he knew that Rohvin loathed him. He thought Ghurdan no more than a bounty hunter, but he was wrong Ghurdan knew more of their dark lord than any of them could imagine. "As she wishes" he nodded mockingly. Rahvin snorted and made his way back to his mistress.

The minute Rahvin had walked away Ghurdan spun around and started issuing various orders to his crew. within an hour the desert camp was set, sand coloured tent openings flapping in the gentle breeze.

"Ghurdan, Sammael" The cool but honeyed voice of Sevora called to them. As he drew closer he saw them (the priestesses group) pointing to the village on a large dark coloured map and nodding in agreement to something that himself and Sammael had clearly missed.

It was soon agreed that this village would be the ideal place to get supplies and information regarding the present location of the tribes. "The danger is that we may find it hard to get information from these desert people. We need to be discreet." Ghurdan cautioned. Sammael nodded considerimgly, "I know just the way" he said grinning mischievously, looking in Essenia's direction.

Servora called the stern looking female warrior over and they all listened as Sammael informed them of what they required of her. Ghurdan noted the woman's instant distain at the mere suggestion. " No" had been her initial response but after some thought she reluctantly nodded her assent.

"Good!" Sammael exclaimed grinning broadly and rubbing his hands briskly, "Now, I will go with her , as her brother of course, not husband or our plan would have little success"

"Zasfal" Ghurdan interrupted calmly, "What!" Sammael cried, his smile fading abruptly as he turned to face Ghurdan.

"You look nothing like her. It should be Zasfal " he retorted looking him up and down.

A heated exchange erupted between the two, neither one willing to back down. "ENOUGH" Sevora shouted impatiently, "Zasfal will go" she went on calmly. Ghurdan nodded respectfully and went to find Zasfal.

He found the young man sparing with one of the crew, a tall muscular lad that Ghurdan had seen Zasfal sparing with on more than one occasion, So not all the crew loath him then, he thought as he walk closer to the pair. "Zasfal" he called. As Zasfal turned, the other man swiftly disarmed him and sent him sprawling into the sand, " well done" he laughed, as he got up and dusted the sand from his clothes, he picked up his sword and walked towards Ghurdan.

"I have a mission for you " Ghurdan grinned. Zasfal stopped and eyed the sea captain suspiciously. "Sorry my mistake, we have a mission for you" he laughed coldly. He then told Zasfal what had happened at the meeting. Zasfal was grinning from ear to ear, as Ghurdan finished speaking. The thought that it would annoy Sammael that he would be accompanying the young female warrior on this mission satisfied him immensely. Not that he thought he stood a better chance with her, he had meet her type before and knew that no man would break through her cold exterior.

Zasfal quickly changed in to the attire more suiting of a desert trader. As he approached he saw Essenia, he blinked twice making sure he was looking apon the same woman, her sun-dark shoulder length hair now sat seductively about her shoulders, the dress she now wore hugged her small framed, she also wore a silk veil so that only her large dark eyes showed making her look even more mysterious. Zasfal grinned approvingly, "I am Zasfal, I am your brother. Your name is Zareena. We are travelling to seek the tribes to trade." Essenia nodded and Zasfal did not miss the loathing in her eyes. "I am ready" she said quietly.

*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*
Zasfal and Zareena (Essenia)

After a few instructions from the others they were ready to leave. They walked for sometime in complete silence, but as they reached the outskirts of the village Zasfal put a firm hand on her arm to stop her. She spun round and glared at him viciously. He quickly withdrew his hand and raised them in the air "Woah ..." he cried "We are on the same side remember" he chided.
"I was merely going to ask if you were ready, but I see that you are" he said as another scowl crossed the woman's face.

It was now dark and the lights in the tiny houses lit their way down the sandy road until they came to the centre of the village, they could just make out a stone alter and a large well at its centre, they then heard hearty laughter coming form a small inn that sat on the far side of the road.

Zasfal pushed open the door "After you sister" he smiled warmly. Essenia scowled at him briefly as she passed in to the brightly lit inn. Every eye in the inn was on them as they walked slowly to the bar. "can I help you" the barman asked "yes indeed you may, I would like an ale and something to eat if you have it ." he then looked to Essenia to see if she wished to partake in some food and drink, but he saw her smiling disarmingly at a group of young men that sat at a far table gawking at her, Herders he thought looking at their drab attire.

"And something for my sister when she is ready to order" he laughed heartily, the barman laughed with him seeing the young men at the table fumbling with their mugs as Essenia flashed her beautiful dark eyes at them. "A red wine if you have one," she smile without looking away from the men. She then looked to Zasfal pretending to be looking for permission from her older sibling to leave his company and join the younger men at their table. "On you go" he laughed.

She delicately picked up her glass and walked seductively to the table were the young men now , straightened their shirts and tried to fix their untidy hair as she approached, Zasfal had to turn back to his drink and the hot plate of roasted meats that sat before him to try and stifle the laughter that threatened to erupt from his mouth at the sight of the young men, She will eat them alive he though as he pushed a mouthful of meat into his mouth.

"So what brings you and your sister to our small village?" The barman asked him, the barman was still smiling but Zasfal noted a slight tone of suspicion in his voice. "We are on our way to trade with the tribes" he he said not looking up from his plate "We found your village by mere chance" he continued taking a long drew of his ale, "And it was lucky that we did, for we are running low on supplies" he looked up from his plate "I don't suppose you could tell me were I could replenish our supplies" he asked hopefully. "You have arrived right on time, for tomorrow is market day and you should be able to get what ever you require from the market square." he smiled rubbing the mug in his hand for the up tenth time.

"Shall you and your sister be requiring a room for the night" the barman inquired. Not wishing to draw suspicion to himself and Essenia , he nodded, "Yes, Two rooms please" "that will be fifteen gold per night per room," the barman said smiling mischievously. Zasfal almost choked on his ale "fifteen" he eyed the barman in disbelief, "Yes fifteen ," the barman repeated warningly as he looked to a big man the stood by the door. "I think we shall be staying only the one night at that price" he laughed taking the required gold pieces from his pouch and handing them to the barman, who in turned handed him two small brass keys, "through the door, second and third on the right" he smiled pointing to the door at the other end of the bar. "Thank you" Zasfal said returning to his meal.

He finished his food then turned to watch how things unfolded between the stern warrior and the naive young men. It looked as though things were going well. " what is it you trade." Zasfal was surprised by the sudden question that came for a man that sat two stools down from him staring blankly into his drink . Zasfal quickly regained his composer "The very best herb's and spices from Umbar," he lied quickly. The man looked up from his drink and eyed him suspiciously, " I could show you if you like" he bluffed taking his pack from his back. "No I'm not interested in herb's and spices, but I'm sure the tribal woman will be" he said coolly returning to his drink.

Zasfal eyed him for a bit over the rim of his mug, a tribesman he thought to himself, but before he could question the man further a disturbance broke out behind him, As he whirled round he saw Essenia sanding facing off with one of the young men, It seems that one of the young men had upset her and she had smacked him in the face breaking his nose. Then the other three men stood up intending to back up their surprised friend.

Zasfal shook his head and strode up grabbing Essenia roughly by the arm, "I must apologise for my sisters outburst, " he said smiling apologetically and pulling on the fuming Essenia's arm "Come Zareena " he scolded dragging her quickly through the door to their rooms. He quickly unlocked the first door and pushed Essenia through.

She shrugged herself free and slapped him hard across the face, Zasfal stumbled back in surprise "I did not need your help" she spat at him. "And you would not have got it" he spat back wiping a dribble of blood that ran down his chin from his lip, "But in case you had forgotten we are supposed to be gathering information not brawling in bars" he said casting her an accusing look. She glared at him angrily "And I got all we needed" she huffed. "Then I think it is time we where leaving he snapped, quietly sliding open the dusty window and looking about to see if anyone was watching.

"So what did he do?" Zasfal asked grinning mischievously as she cross the room to climb out the window he held open for her, "He slighted the great city " she spat disgustingly. "Did he indeed" Zasfal replied nonchalantly, but Essenia did not miss the flash of rage in the young mans dark green eyes as she sat on the ledge in front of him. Zasfal did not see the hardened woman's surprised as he had returned to watching the street below to make sure no one would spot their leaving, once he heard the soft thud of Essenia's feet landing on the sparse grass below he too silently slipped out the window.

They silently made their way though the village making sure they were not spotted as they left. Once out of the village and walking the four or so miles back to the camp they exchanged what information they had found, it seemed that the Tribal camps were less than two days march from this village.

As they entered the camp the others where waiting for them , "What did you do!" Sevora screeched, grabbing him viciously by the arm examining his bruised face. "One of the locals got rowdy" he smiled mischievously turning to Essenia, which was a mistake, as he found out to late, Sevora hit him hard across the face causing his lip to bleed once more, Zasfal turned back to her his eyes livid with rage, But the priestess pushed her face against the side of his face, "I will suffer no more of your stupidity" she hissed sharply in his ear.

"So did you manage to find out anything" Sevora scowled stepping back and deliberately addressing only Essenia. Essenia continued to calmly tell the rest of the group what they had found out,Zasfal sat silently wreathing, that was the third time he had been hit in the face and he silently swore there would not be a fourth.

_____________________________________________

Lyra Greenleaf's post

“Curse him! Curse him!”
Sammael paced restlessly in the murky twilight, far to one side of the camp.
“If you want to curse him” Damodred interrupted “please wait until we no longer have to travel with him”

Sammael turned irritably.
“He knew I wanted to go to the village Damodred. That’s the only reason he sent that snivelling rat. No-one would care that I don’t look like her! I don’t look like my brother Silen, but he’s still my brother!”
“You know that you show your wishes too readily. You cannot hide your emotions. That is your greatest fault, and you have been told so a thousand times. You have no-one to blame but yourself.”

Sammael sighed heavily. “I suppose you’re right. You’ve been so long in this world there must be little you don’t know”
With a forced grin he turned to walk back to the camp, clapping his hand on Damodred’s shoulder as he passed.

***************

Essenia fumed silently as she followed Zasfal back to the camp. Inwardly she cursed this eel, the fat, piggish merchant, and all men.

"What did you do!"
The piercing shriek entered Essenia’s consciousness and she glanced up. Lost in angry contemplation she hadn’t noticed that they had reached back to the camp. The priestess Sevora was in front of her examining Zasfal’s face

The foolish snake answered with a grin and turned to Essenia to back him up. Essenia smiled despite herself to see Sevora's arm lash out like a whip to strike him in the face. Then she whispered in his ear. Essenia hoped it was unpleasant.

"So did you manage to find out anything?" Sevora asked Essenia, pointedly excluding Zasfal.

Coldly, but with the respect that might have earned Zasfal a less painful punishment, Essenia told what she had learned. The tribes were gathering. The merchants had told her names that meant nothing to her- Painted Sand, Baobab, Wind Scorpion and more.

Furthermore, he had heard from someone who had returned from trading a few days ago that there was some trouble. The tribes kept their problms secret from outsiders but there were ripples of tension, it seemed, visible to all. Neither the piggy man nor his source knew what the division was about, or who it was between, but it would be useful to their cause. The Priestess' eyes lit up at the news, as Essenia had known they would. Good news always softened every blow, Sevora seemed to barely register that it was, in fact, Essenia who had been at the heart of the fight.

The merchant had told her their location happily, numbers of people, how long it was expected they would stay (as much as it was possible to know with nomads) and much more besides before he began to ask his own questions. Unwillingly Essenia had told him where she was from, hoping to get more information. The disparaging of Umbar had been given with a hand sneaking around her neck, pulling her head closer. For Sevora, Essenia added disrespect to the dark religion as the man’s true crime.

With disdain, Sevora turned to Zasfal.
"Have you anything to add?" she asked coldly.
"I talked to a tribesman..."
"WHAT?" Sevora shrieked, grabbing his shoulders.

"Goodnight" Essenia said to her back, then walked off. That boy truly was stupid. He had what was coming to him

[ July 09, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Helkahothion]

Thorgom laughed at the orders of Ghurdan and pitched his tent a bit away from the camp. To the annoyance of Sammael. In his tent he felt right at home. The chair he carried was soon in the corner and he went outside to see what was going on. It seemed they had a plan to send of two people to gather information about the camps. Stupid people, they take along a man of the outskirts of the land and don't bother to ask if he knows about the camps.

"Ohw well, better if they don't bother me with questions. They are annoying enough as it is." Thorgom said to himself.

The priestess' where about being important in their own way and Thorgom went for a walk. The "brother and sister" were already off to the village, so it was best not to go there. It would get in the way of their ridiculous plan. The people here are stupid, they would soon be back. The biggest fool could do gathering information without trouble. Curious of the outcome, Thorgom went back to the camp to see what happened.

At the arrival of the scene he saw that Zasfal was bleeding a bit and the priestess slapped him across the face. Thorgom felt sorry for the man, he had been whacked three times in two days. He pulled out a clean bit of texture and gave it to him. Zasfal looked at him with disbelieve and a view to kill.

"I'm fine thank you." He said calmly.

He heard the priestess mutter something about fools. Thorgom figured that something had gone wrong in the village, the priestess' never slapped without reason. And flirting was not a reason for punishment. He had experienced that himself. So the two stupid children had messed up in the town.

"It must have been the girl. She is a fiery spirit." Thorgom reasoned with himself.

The thought of Zasfal taking a blow for a girl he did not even want to get hit for was deadly amusing. Thorgom went to his tent with cramps of laughing. Again the group looked as if they saw water burn and a rat running trough the food. Thorgom went out again; he found a rat running around and caught it. It appeared to be some sort of mating season or something, because the place was crawling with rats. Thorgom managed to catch about six fat ones. Satisfied with the rats he went to the tent and set up a roast with some branches. He got a lot of looks of the women and men standing a bit further. He raised the roasted rats that he was eating.

"Anyone want a bite?" Thorgom shouted.

One of the men took a dive behind the cart and started throwing up. Thorgom laughed on his stool and munched on the rats.

[ July 10, 2003: Message edited by: Helkahothion ]

[Durelin]

A hot wind rising from the east, little more than a breeze, brought no relief from the baking of the sun, beating down from a cloudless sky, scorching the already harsh wasteland of the desert. It had only just risen, but its beams were in no way cooler or calmer. Still, it would grow hotter.

Waves of heat danced on the horizon, backed by nothing but blue sky. The breeze carried with it grains of sand, stinging the skin, what little skin that showed. The people of the desert, the Haradrim, had long learned to cover their bodies, and most things, fully, to give reprieve from the sun and sand. And to easily conceal what they wished.

The hot wind ruffled the brown robes and loose skirt around Sevora as she gazed from atop a small ridge. Less than a mile away, ripples of heat danced above a clump of small buildings, most little more than huts, some much like tents. The only building with an actual thatch roof was the lone inn, which only contained three rooms.

Sevora turned to Dristi and Naramarth, also scanning the village below. Her dark brown veil hid a smile, but left her eyes visible, which burned with a cold light of anticipation and the desire of something just beyond. "I believe this will be a worthy place to supply us. The dark Lord grows weary of waiting for blood. We will shed some here…"

Abruptly she turned to Sammael and Ghurdan, who she had summoned. "Get the men moving. We will move into town with our entire…forces. I have a little business to take care of which I believe all should be present for." She paused to give a little trill of laughter. "And I see little reason to move today. We will take rest and supplies. Tonight, you will camp just outside the city…a yard or so from the last house should do nicely… Those of the Order will stay in the inn, for there are three rooms…correct?" Without waiting for a reply she continued. "Now, get the men ready. Notify me when we can move." Her eyes moved to each of them as she spoke those words, reminding them that they both were in charge.

They each gave Sevora a small bow, but neither pair of eyes left her for a moment. She watched them turn and leave, and was disappointed to find that they did not flinch or seem uncomfortable at all with her gaze at their backs. But, still, she was also a bit pleased. Sammael and Ghurdan had many traits that a member of the Order needed.

Without removing her eyes from the backs of the two men, Sevora spoke again. "Priestess Dristi," she said, playing at a singsong voice. "I hope you can join me in my quarters this evening for a bit of…amusement." She let out a long trilling laugh, sounding quite fake, before turning to Rahvin, who was by her side, as at most times. "We will leave a mark," she whispered. Smiling to herself, Sevora went over to where Sammael and Ghurdan were assembling the men, Rahvin behind her, almost smiling.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Aylwen's post

Very Early Morning, Before Dawn...

"Guard her," Jasara whispered hoarsly to her sister. Khasia glared at Jasara, face set and determined against this order. The younger sibling shook her head and looked back and forth from the prisoner Chani and her sister Jasara. Then she shook her head violently in a resounding no.

"That's duty for the weaklings! I will not stand by while you get to go and have all the fun and excitement!" Khasia complained, but Jasara suspected her sister's true reasons had been stretched far too thin.

"Have your fun and excitement torturing her, if you please. Najah! Nasir! We go," said Jasara abruptly, ending the sibling fued with a call to her aids. Najah was cranky with the exhaust of lack of sleep, while if Nasir was tired he decided not to show it. The three jogged off silently into the night, leaving a pouting, angry Khasia behind with a troop of young.

_____________________________________________

Sophia's post

Khasia had sat sullenly beside Chani's tree. Long hours crept by while the Painted Sand girl taunted her. Khasia didn't move, didn't speak, just silently turned the dagger over in her hand. She was so angry she could not. Jasara wanted to keep her weak, keep her powerless. Jasara wanted to keep her out of the action and away from any who might someday follow her. She was as powerless here as she had been with the old.

"Don't you even hear me?" came Chani's voice from above her. "Do you have no pride in your people?" Khasia rose, eyes blazing. It was more than she could handle, being insulted by this prisoner, this girl tied to a tree. Moving quickly she thrust the dagger into the tree trunk only a few inches from Chani's face.

"My people have never given me what I wanted. My people will never give me what I want." Chani's eyes were fixed on the dagger quivering in the wood beside her cheek. "I bear little loyalty to my sister today, and you would be wise to remember it." She pulled the dagger back out of the wood and returned to her seat at the foot of the tree. For a time, Chani was silent.

_____________________________________________

Aylwen's post

Creeping into the outskirts of the Painted Sand tribe's camp Jasara, Nasir, and Najah said naught and stepped silently with bare feet. They slunk around the tented area of the camp like snakes, disturbing only the sand that they walked on. They soon found themselves in a small clearing where a few blankets had been laid and children slept.

"I thought you'd never come," whispered a strong voice from behind one nearby tent. It was Uri, the second-in-command of the Painted Sand young. Behind him were about ten children and young ranging in age from seven to twenty. He shook hands with Jasara, then proceeded to soundlessly wake the fifteen young who slept on blankets in the clearing.

A few hours before dawn the company made it back to the camp of the Baobab Young. Most of the Baobob were sleeping, save for Khasia. She sat next to Chani's tree, a dagger in hand and an evil grin on her face. The Painted Sand young took places to sleep among the Baobab, and quietly drifted off into sleep.

"Chani? What is she doing here?" Uri asked Jasara, who smirked in an expression all too akin to her sister's.

"She intruded. We could not have her betraying our secrets, can we? Ransom is always a good way to use her as well," replied Jasara, and Uri simply nodded in return. Then he went off to talk with Nasir and Najah quickly before finding a place to sleep.

An army of young. Strong youth against weak elders. Wise new tactics against ageless superstitions. You will not fail Jasara. I will help you...

[ July 13, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

There had been no time to talk when the traders returned from The Painted Sands camp. The evening meal had to be seen to, and two of Qamar’s children were feeling ill. Too much monkey-fruit for their stomachs to handle. And then, of course, there was the presence of Husam, who now seemed to hover relentlessly close to Qirfah, affording her no time to speak in depth to her sister.

The night passed, and day dawned with a dull glow in the east. Husam and Nasr had swallowed a hasty breakfast then gone hunting near the watering hole. The two sisters sat near each other by the small cooking fire, their heads close together talking softly. They did not hear the approach of their mother as she padded up behind them.

Startled, they turned to see her worried face, as she crouched down and touched them each on the shoulder. ‘Keep your children near, daughters. I have had disturbing news from a rider from the Painted Sands.’ Chani, Ishak’s older daughter, had gone missing, and could not be found. Men from the Painted Sands had been out looking for her without success. It had also been discovered that fifteen of the youth from the tribe had stolen away in the night.

‘Pah!’ Qamar spit into the fire. ‘It’s that Jasara girl, isn’t it. Her and her raggedy bunch of ghost children.’ She looked out beyond the northern perimeter of Baobab camp. ‘We were too kind to them. We should have been more like the Painted Sands and left their bodies to the jackals.’

Jamílah opened her mouth to retort, but then thought better of it. Were she to be true to her feelings at this point, she too would say the very same. Instead she pressed her cheek to Qamar’s and bade her and Quirfah help her. There had been a quick meeting of the Elders after the messenger had come, and a decision had been made.

‘Take the north section of tents, Qirfah. Qamar, you take the east. Duha and I will take the south and west. Tell all the women to bring their children in close. And to pack up their tents. We are moving today.’

‘Moving!’ cried Qirfah, frowning at the news. ‘But we have only been here a short time.’ ‘Where, Mother?’ asked Qamar, tucking her skirt band in securely as she stood.

‘Faruq has sent runners to the Painted Sands Tribe. He and Ishak had discussed this as a possibility yesterday.’ Jamílah shivered and pulled her shawl closer about her. We will move our tribes into the same camp. It will be easier to guard against trouble if we are all together.’ She lifted her eyes to where the morning’s clouds threw slow moving shadows over the grasses. Her hand moved to the knife in the sheath at her waist.

‘Once there, we will join in the hunt . . .’

[Nerindel]

"Get up! we're moving out" Ghurdan barked kicking the nearest soldier who was still sleeping, the men hurried to carry out their captains orders. Ghurdan could see that his men were still uneasy about taking orders from Sammael, they looked between the two leaders every time Sammeal issued an order. "The Eye requires that you take orders from both myself and Sammael, so take orders from us both you shall and without question" Ghurdan yelled his booming voice carrying a dangerous tone to every mans ear. He did not look at Sammael, he didn't care if his intervention offended the younger man, if this group was to come across any resistance they would have to work together, whether either man liked it or not.

He turned his back on the group and gathered his own gear, throwing his pack on his back he caught sight of Zasfal, his whole left side of his face was swollen and dry blood crusted his lower lip. Ghurdan shook his head in disgust, this feeling was not only towards Zasfal's stupidity but also to those who in only two days had managed to make his first mate completely useless. What use will he be to us in battle if he can not see his enemy he thought scathingly.

The men were all but assembled when Sevora, Rahvin, Dristi and Naramarth returned. Ghurdan took eight men making sure that Zasfal was one of them and assembled them to march infront of the cart, while Sammael ordered the others to the rear. Ghurdan was unsure if Sevora meant to head the march on the village or not so instead of taking his usual position at the head of his men he stood a little off to their right and waited.

Ghurdan watched as Dristi and Naramarth mounted the cart, he took little notice of were the other warrior positioned themselves, but he did watch as Sevora closely followed as ever by Rahvin came around the cart and took position at the head of the group, she then nodded her readiness to leave. "Move out!" he boomed and they began their march on the village, their spear tips glistening in the morning sun.

[Durelin]

Durelin's post

Rahvin stared straight ahead, keeping pace jut behin his mistress, his great mistress. It was true that he would follow her to his death, and follow her into the grave. Only the Eye did he hold above her, and that was because of her insistance.

He remembered this Ghurdan, called the Black Heart. Why? What was the point of these little...attachments to their names? Was it supposed to put them in a higher position, or at least make them seem of high rank? It was nonsense. If they could not earn rank through their own work, they did not have a place on this earth.

But this Ghurdan...he could be insolent, ignorant, disgraceful, yes, but he was one who had worked, if not so hard. And his first mate showed much more stupidity than he ever had. He brought himself down with his foolishness, a foolishness that he was blind of. Blinded of by what...Rahvin could not put his finger on. The man was doing much better, though, much better, at following the Great Mistress's orders...and the will of the Eye.

Rahvin fell back in the line of march to where Ghurdan walked near the head of his crew. His acrobats, as Rahvin had heard Sammael call them. Rahvin had many doubts about that man, but he was sure there was more to the utter...goofball than on that grinning surface.

The sea captain did not seem to notice Rahvin and kept walking carelessly. Rahvin eyed him for a moment, searching the man's eyes as if he could see the shroud that blinded Ghurdan of his folly. Still the man ignored Rahvin, but not blatantly so. The man was not a complete fool. "You're first mate seems to follow in your footsteps, Ghurdan. But, still, he is much more foolish than you ever were."

_____________________________________________

Nerindel's post: Ghurdan and Rahvin

"You're first mate seems to follow in your footsteps, Ghurdan, but, still, he is much more foolish than you ever were."

Ghurdan was not sure if Rahvin was trying to goad him into losing his temper or if he was fishing for and insight to his sudden change in temperament towards his first mate. Indeed Ghurdan had been foolish in his youth, most probably the only reason his mother had allowed his father to take charge of their son and to this end Ghurdan was glad, he learnt much from his father.

Had he not been so foolish his mother would have forced him into priesthood or even worst the mindless Citadel Guard, but as it was he was his own man and held himself under no one but the Dark lord himself , oh, off course he was clever enough not to flaunt this under the noses of the devotees of the dark religion, Who sat in their dark citadels praying and sacrificing hoping to gain the eye's favour, yet sending others to do his bidding.

The enemy, Gondorian scum were held at bay by the corsairs and armies of Umbar and well the eye knew it, but he uses his little puppets to bring him more fighters and to mould and shape others to his will , so for this reason Ghurdan tolerates the citadel and carries out their petty orders when they come. Yes, Zasfal is much like he once was and it did explain his sudden leanancy,'Yes, maybe I am seeing my younger self in this young lad' he thought amusingly to himself.

Ghurdan turned a regarding eye on Zasfal, who marched with the others, if not some what sulkily. "Do you think!" Ghurdan replied, as if it was something that he had not noticed or considered, as he turned his black eyes back to the growing village on the horizon, he added calmly "He is young, he will learn with age to become less foolish" Rahvin studied him for a moment this was not the response he had hoped for. "If he does not get himself kill first off course" Ghurdan added coldly.

Ghurdan walk a little ahead of Rahvin leaving him to contemplate his words as he saw fit, Ghurdan cared not of what this man thought of him. Yes, Ghurdan knew that many in the Citadel believed his favour was his mothers doing and he cared not, but if any dared to accuse him of lack of service to his country or his dark lord they did not live long enough to regret it.

A fire burned inside at those thoughts, but he felt something else within him, as if a dark cold hand wrapped itself around the flames starving the fire of oxygen, Ghurdan inhaled deeply under his scarf and the feeling left as quickly as it had come taking all his rage with it.

[ July 12, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Tinuviel of Denton]

The priests of the Eye ordered that everyone in the village assemble in the square when they arrived. None of the villagers knew why. Many were suspicious of these priests. Oh, they worshipped the Eye and everything, but no one really cared all that much. It didn’t seem to have much to do with their daily lives, after all.

“People of the Eye, hear me! We go on a quest to the Southlands, to fight for the glory of the Eye and the progression of Umbar. To fight the barbarians and turn them to the true path. We require of you but one thing. A human sacrifice, to bring luck to our quest and glory to the Eye. We will give you till sunset to think on it.”

Abdul-Shihab smiled. A human sacrifice? How perfect. He approached the younger of the two priestesses. “I believe I have the perfect answer for you, Holiness. I have a daughter, eighteen years of age and unmarried. Indeed, I fear that she will never marry. Her one ambition has been to serve the Eye in whatever way she can. This would be exactly what she’s always hoped for.” All during this little speech, he was rubbing his oily hands together greedily. At last, he would be rid of Falia.

Dristi looked at this dirt-grubber with disgust. He offered someone else, rather than himself, and if he weren’t so repulsive, she’d be tempted to sacrifice him to show the villagers that to offer another was to offer oneself. But the Eye would not be pleased with such an inferior victim. A young, unmarried female, on the other hand, was promising. And from his words, the young woman did not sound willing. Even better.

“We will see.”

****

Falia, meantime, wasn’t even in the village. She was a few miles away, looking for one of the lost kids from her father’s flock, which was a boy’s job. And she was singing. And not a hymn to the Eye either. This was just a simple song of how the springtime made her feel, lighthearted and carefree.

What Falia wanted more than anything else was to be left alone. Not to raise a horde of dirty children, not to go into service to the Eye, certainly not to be married; simply to live her life without the complications of extra ties to anyone, be it family or god. And if she could continue to care for the goats and keep the young men away, she would be perfectly content.

Pity her father hated her so much.

****

When Falia returned to the village later that evening, goat in tow, she was surrounded by grim-faced men in red and black uniforms. They grabbed her and pinioned her arms. The rest of the villagers made no move to help her; they would rather remain alive. A tall woman in blood-red and black robes glided up to her and looked her over carefully. Falia had the feeling that the woman was looking for flaws, and somehow, she knew that she wanted this woman to find them. Her life depended on it. She also received the unsettling impression that this woman looked on her as no more than a thing, on a level of worth with the goat that Falia had just brought in. For the second time in her life, Falia was d*athly afraid.

Then the drums began. A steady, blood-chilling beat, designed to bring to mind a heart beating in fear. There was an altar set up in the middle of the village square, and Falia shuddered to think what it meant. There was no one who would help her, no one who could, but she called out anyway. There was no response, save a quickening of the drumbeat.

The woman beckoned to the men holding her, and they laid her almost gently on the altar. They couldn’t risk damaging the sacrifice, after all. The knife the priestess held aloft was black and discolored near the end of the blade. The red stone in the hilt gleamed dully in the light of the setting sun.

The drums quickened once again, a staccato rhythm that matched the tempo of Falia’s heart. She looked once more at the villagers, imploring them to help her…and she saw her father. He was standing off to the side, smiling a little, wicked smile that told her more than she’d ever known about him. He’d given her over to this and was enjoying it.

The drums quickened once more, and as the last light of the sun slipped under the horizon, the Red Flame plunged the knife deep into Falia’s heart. It was done.

Sevora motioned to Abdul-Shihab with the bloody knife. “Kill him.” The sort of man who could cheerfully sell his daughter into slavery or sacrifice was usually useful to the Eye, but not him. He was groveling, weak. Worthless. Such a man did not deserve to breathe the same air as the Eye’s Chosen servant.

[Helkahothion]

Ghurdan wanted to step forward, but was beaten to Abdul-Shihab by Thorgom. The man was a terrible monster to sell his own children. Even a barbarian like the old Thorgom knew that betraying your children was the biggest form of treachery. If he was able to give away his daughter and smile at her struggle of death, then Thorgom would be delighted to break his little neck. Abdul-Shihab saw the big man walking towards him with his hand patting a throwing axe.

"Go ahead, make a run for it. How far do you think you will get in this crowd?"

They eyes of Abdul-Shihab where streaming with fear and he walked backwards slowly. The people around him did not go out of the way and he was faced with his back to the crowd. No one did anything. Abdul-Shihab begged for help.

"These intruders have not kept their promise, they said they wanted a sacrifice, but this is plain murder."

No one made a move and he felt the heavy foots of Thorgom pounding towards him slowly. Thorgom enjoyed this moment. He took his time. He reached the pathetic man and reached out for him. In a flash a dagger went for the arm. Thorgom pulled back but the blade made a cut wound in his arm. Thorgom's rage was awoken and stirred inside him. He wanted to make the fear get the best of him. With a swift swipe his smashed the dagger out of the hands with the back of the throwing axe.

Abdul-Shihab lunged at him, trying to punch the big man down. Thorgom ducked, grabbed the arm and punched in the side. His side cracked and Thorgom had broken three ribs. He turned the man's arm on his back and pulled up hard. A loud crack came once more and Abdul-Shihab's shoulder was dislocated. He screamed in pain. Thorgom used the back of his throwing axe once more and smashed the Abdul-Shihab on his shin, which resulted in a broken leg.

Thorgom took Abdul-Shihab by his hair, pulled his head back wards and dragged him by his hair to Sevora. He lifted the man by his hair from the ground and nodded at Sevora.

"What are your orders oh Sevora, high priestess of the eye? Will you grant him the same dagger as his daughter?" Thorgom mocked to get Abdul-Shihab driving insane.

To this Sevora laughed. Extending death, and destroying the nerves of the man.

"He is not worth the dagger. Take care of him in you own ehm, special way." Sevora said with a mocking disgusted tone

Thorgom raised the man by his hairs again. He screamed for mercy. Thorgom dropped him and kicked him hard in the stomach. He was thoroughly enjoying. But they were wasting time. He took the man by the neck and dragged him to the altar. All the eyes followed the big man. He placed Abdul-Shihab's on the alter.

"If you only dare to move, I will burn you alive while stab you with a burning torch you got that?" Thorgom said in a terrible voice.

Thorgom took his two-handed axe and went standing behind the man that was crying of pain and fear. His tears dropped in the sand that was still a bit hot. They immediately disappeared, just like his life would in a few moments. Abdul-Shihab was glad that it was going to be quick.

Thorgom raised his axe, but instead in the head, he smashed it with full power in Abdul-Shihab's back. The man screamed to the fullest of his voice and was moving around like a spider that was being pushed to his death slowly. Thorgom took the axe out and left the man bleeding to death. He wiped it clean to the pants of his victim and went back to Sevora with a big smile of satisfaction on his face.

"Order completed as you wished oh high priestess of the eye."

Thorgom went back to the line and joined on Gurdhan's side.

[Arien]

“Interesting…” whispered Dristi from beneath her robes. She was again wrapped deep within her priestess robes, and all but her gleaming, straight hair was hidden behind them. She watched the spectacle Sevora had arranged with amusement, an altar, drums and all! And Sevora doing her usual duty, killing a helpless person for sacrifice, how hard and strenuous on her physical and mental self. That was no sacrifice, it was simply cutting up the already dead meat for service to The Dark Lord. Kitchen duty as Dristi had recently nick named it.

The real sacrifice was when you hunted for the meat and then killed it, you efforts paying of and a little of your strength surrendered to the Dark Lord. Hey, but whatever riveted Sevora, she was not complaining. As the girl died, now Sevora ordered that idiotic gofer to kill her father. Hard job to seeing as the village was now filled with their company and running would surely result in a punishment worse than death. She continued to watch the play before her, smiling with delight at the insolent people she was bound to travel with.

“Dristi?” Sevora had turned to her and now looked into her eyes.

“Yes, oh high priestess?” smirked Dristi her eyes dancing with laughter.

“Dristi, you remember to see me in my quarters….” she drawled, seemingly oblivious to what Dristi had just said, but Dristi remembered not to take Sevora at face value.

“Yes, after I have a little exercise, pray if you will. You see Sevora,” she said menacingly, “ some of us have the skill to catch and slay the sacrifice, others need it laid down in front of their pretty eyes." She laughed and walked off before Sevora could reply. Dristi made her way quickly to the outskirts of the village, she swept across the sandy streets as if gliding. Night was falling and that torturous sun burnt the sky with and orange glow. As she came to a sandy clearing she sat herself down. And taking out one of her knives she drew a circle around where she sat. Then sitting upright she pulled back her sleeve to reveal a deep mark just above her wrist.

It was an eye, delicately carved by herself and the wound reopened every time the moon disappeared. When it was nearly all darkness, but for those blasted stars. She carefully gathered some dry leaves and twigs and made a fire. She sat up right, the small fire in front of her. She took her kife and carved into the wound, the blood spilling into the fire. A sweet smell of burnt blood rose into the looming darkness.

“Oh Dark One, envy I have, greed, lust, pride and anger. Receive these good things I have and make them more powerful. Tell me your wishes if you want, but to be kept in the darkness is your wish. For those who worship the light have never experienced your darkness.”

[ July 12, 2003: Message edited by: Arien ]

[Lyra Greenleaf]

"Finally we're going to civilisation" Sammael said to Damodred, eyes shining. And the sea captain's minions were finally listening to his orders. It was galling that Ghurdan had had to order them, but the end result was the same, anyway. Yes, things seemed finally to be smoothing out in this complicated party. Swirling currents still lurked beneath the surface, but it should be possible for the careful man to save himself.

He was so happy that he winked at Essenia when he saw her walking beside him. Her eyes showed contempt but her face remained smooth as usual. Sammael could hardly credit the story that she had lost her temper so that she slapped both Zasfal and some man in an inn.
The cold fish feels after all!, he thought with something akin to triumph. It made her more human and so, more accessible. Meanwhile the village was getting closer and closer.

*********************

Damodred watched Sammael with something approaching paternalism. Standing in this crowded village square he was even now gazing at the maidens, winking when he saw one he liked the look of. He wasn't paying any attention to what was going on between the Priestess and a sly looking man.

"Do what you want with her" the man was whining. "She's no good to me in life, perhaps her death will help us gain the favour of the Eye"

Damodred grimaced. Sacrifice. It was a part and parcel of the Dark Religion, but a part Sammael never seemed to have accepted. Damodred had rarely known someone more devoted to the Eye, but this... Quickly he made a decision. This was no time for heroics.

"Sammael, come with me" he said quietly, putting a hand on the boy's sleeve. Sammael turned reluctantly but saw the absolute command that rarely appeared in Damodred's eyes. Without anyone noticing, the two men left the square. Quickly Damodred led Sammael through the eserted village until they reached the tavern. there was no-one there, but Sammael served the two men, leaving coin by the glasses.

"What is it?" Sammael asked.
Damodred knew he had to answer.
"Sacrifice, lad" he answered. "There is NOTHING you can do, unless you want to be killed yourself. It's probably happened, but if not there are 20 armed men out there and not just half trained country men."

Sammael's face was black. Damodred watched in terror as he stormed from the inn. All he did, though, was kick the whitewashed wall, then put his head in his hands and sink to the ground.

[Ealasaid]

Ahmad walked away from his conversation with Qamar, his emotions a tangled knot. More than anything, he wanted to stay and talk with her, press her about what Qirah had said about him, how she felt, all of it, but too many other, more pressing matters pulled at him. Leaving Qamar in the marketplace, he had spent the remainder of the afternoon in a thorough search for his missing sister, Chani. No one had see her. By the time he had passed back through the marketplace late in the day, Qamar was gone.

Then,in the night, the rebellious faction of young people of his own tribe had departed, leaving the Painted Sand camp in favor of the camp the young Baobab people had formed in the old campsite near the stream. They had taken many arms with them, as well. Ahmad had a sinking feeling that that camp would be where he would find his sister. He hoped they would find her there alive, but he had already begun to doubt. She was a proud girl and not terribly prudent when her ego had been injured. He had always been able to protect her in the past, fight her battles for her as an older brother should, but this time... he only hoped he would be able to find her in time.

Then, runners had arrived announcing that the two camps, Painted Sand and Baobab, would be uniting as one against that the young ones now posed. As the morning stretched on and the Baobab tribesmen began to arrive with their tents, Ahmad went to find Yusef. As Chani's fiance, Yusef was as much bound by duty as Ahmad himself to do everything possible to locate the missing girl, and, if necessary, avenge her.

Ahmad found Yusef hard at work, for a change, assiting a Baobab family who were attempting to pitch a tent with a a pait of broken poles. He called Yusef aside with a gesture.

"What is it?" asked Yusef as he joined Ahmad. "Any word of her?"

"None as yet," answered Ahmad. "I suppose you have heard that many of our young people have left our camp to join the Baobab rebels in the old campsite by the stream."

"I know." Yusef nodded grimly. "So much for our mission of talking to them, turning their minds back to the traditional ways."

"As if we really could have," Ahmad rejoined bitterly. "We shall have to go to there."

Again, Yusef nodded. "I had figured as much. It's the only place we have yet to look for Chani. You know they are well-armed now."

"We shall be as well," answered Ahmad. He told Yusef that he had already spoken with a handful of cousins and other young men, many of them the strongest and most experienced warriors of the Painted Sand tribe. They had agreed to ride out to the rebel encampment together. Although the intent of the visit would be to talk and to search for Chani, all of them knew that they must be prepared to fight.

Taking all of this in, Yusef frowned. "When do we go?" he asked.

"Now," answered Ahmad. "The others await us already."

"Then let us go," agreed Yusef. The two of them walked off to saddle their horses and join the other warriors.

[ July 12, 2003: Message edited by: Ealasaid ]

[Arien]

Nerindel's post

Ghurdan watched the sacrifice unimpressed, he had witnessed many and some more gruesome than this one, this girl had been lucky and her death was swift. Ghurdan knew that to give up your children for the eye was a great show of faith, but he had never seen any parent give up their child as readily as this one, he watched Abdul-Shihab with growing loathing as he saw the man enjoying every moment of his daughters death.
"Kill Him!". Ghurdan grinned at Sevora's cold words and reached for his sword, but before he could advance on the now panic stricken man someone passed in front of him, it was the large tribe man who had struck Zasfal. Any anger he felt at being denied this kill ebbed away as he watched events unfold. He was interested to see what he could learn about this man from his actions.

Ghurdan was impressed by Thorgom's actions, the dark one could use a man like that he thought to himself , but just then his eyes widened in disbelief as Thorgom lead the snivelling man to the alter. "or not" he whispered darkly as Thorgom buried his axe into the mans back, defiling the alter with the mans unworthy blood.

Ghurdan looked to see Sevora's reaction but as Thorgom approached her grinning with satisfaction, he saw that the priestess remained calm. "Order completed as you wished oh high priestess of the eye" he heard Thorgom tell her, totally oblivious to what he had just done. Sevora nodded but Ghurdan did not miss the evil look she gave the large man as he walked back to stand beside him.

with the ceremony obviously complete Ghurdan ordered his men to make camp on the outskirts of the village, it was then that he noticed that Sammael and Damodred where not present, "so they think themselves above paying homage to our lord" he heard Zasfal spit behind him "Or maybe he just hasn't the stomach for it" he continued laughing coldly.

Ghurdan grabbed the young man by the throat and dragged him to the Alter, were the body of Abdul-Shihab still lay drenched in his own blood, "Take a good look, this could be you someday, if you do not learn to hold that forked tongue of yours" he hissed in Zasfal's ear.

Zasfal's eyes were wide as he realised that the man before his eyes was still alive and looked at him pleadingly to end his pain, he nodded viciously, now understanding fully Ghurdans warning. Ghurdan grabbed him up "Now go help the others set up camp, and keep out of trouble" he spat throwing Zasfal in the direction of the rest of his crew. Ghurdan shook his head as he turned back to the defiled alter, he was still not convinced that the message had sunk in.

Ghurdan kicked the now dead body of Abdul-shihab from the alter "He did not deserve such honour" he hissed, then abruptly he turned and made his way not to the camp but to the small inn too see what entertainment this small village could provide.

_____________________________________________


Arien's post

As she finished speaking the fire jumped and the heat from it became intense. She smiled and sat back, her sleeve still pulled up from her dripping arm. She stayed there for a while sitting at the night drew in, while there she covered the fresh wound in a bandage covered in oils. There was no need for it to be infected with disease. And now after and hour or so the fire had died down to it former size, and she felt energized, fresher, darker. Slowly she stood up, knife still in hand, he sleeves falling delicately to her sides. She stepped out of the circle and the fire ceased to burn, embers scattered into the night air, but no more was left of it.

Now Dristi slowly walked back up to the village. Her bloody knife still slightly dripping. As she came nearer she could see a shadow ahead of her, it seemed to be one of the soldiers that had travelled with them. Or then again not. As she drew closer she could see clearly in the dim light of the stars that it was that man who persisted to annoy her by walking beside her on the previous days.

She had not said anything to him, it would only fire his aspirations of actually even having a chance with her. She laughed, men were stupid, they would fall head over heels for a woman and be blinded by what they were doing. And as a consequence when this happened with Dristi they were most likely to be toyed with and then but to death in any way she deemed.

The High priest knew she did this, often. But he did not have any objection to it as she was valuble to the Citadel’s assets and to loose their chief strategist in war would be a blow that was not worth all the trouble. She walked swiftly passed him as he stood looking at here. He nodded, but she could only see him out of the corner of her eye, then he winked. She stopped still frozen and turned to him.

“What is you name?” she whispered. He shuffled and then replied to her.

“Thorgom….” he answered.

“Ok then Thorgom, don’t even try it, if you do you might wish you were dead….” she trailed off and smiled sweetly at him. She was slightly taken aback, but didn’t show it. The man seemed to look more confused than scared of her remark. She sighed heavily and continued to walk on.

She made her way through the seemingly empty streets to the Inn where they were to be staying. She opened the door, and the usual smoke and ale smell greeted her. She hated these places. People were so uncivilised, unclean and the men looked upon her as if some sort of wonder they had never laid there eyes upon before. So without saying a word she walked to Sevora’s quarters.

She walked down a dank, dark corridor, filled wit the lingering smell of ale, as she came to Sevora’s door she stopped, pausing before knocking on it lightly. With a quick swing the door was opened in front of her, Sevora smiling curtly.

Dristi raised and eyebrow to the contented priestess. “And what are you so happy about?” she said standing in the door way.

“Shut up you stupid girl,” she scowled, her eyes narrowing. “There is no point showing off anymore no ones here to watch you now, you won’t get the attention of any of the men. They are far away now.” she smiled as she walked into her room. Dristi shut the door behind her and followed Sevora, eyeing the room.

“What do you want Sevora?”

[ July 23, 2003: Message edited by: Arien ]

[piosenniel]

‘Briellah, I have noticed your warriors are gathering. Are they going after Chani?’

Once Jamílah had put up her tent and seen to the tents of her daughters’ families, she sought out her friend. Many of the men of the Painted Sands were heading toward where the horses were picketed. Their blades, hanging from their waists, caught the sun as they hurried toward the mounts, their robes parting as they strode along.

Briellah dabbed at her eyes, and nodded her head yes.

‘Come, sit with me,’ Jamílah said gently, leading her friend to the rug by the small brazier in front of Briellah’s tent. She took her time making some thick, dark coffee, talking her way through the process in an effort to draw Briellah’s thoughts into some ordinary state. When the ritual was done and each held their cup in their hands, Jamílah looked toward the west, where the young ones had gone.

‘Have you ever seen the lions hunt,’ she asked softly, as she sipped her drink, and rocked slightly on her mat. Her voice was low, the tone of her words like the start to some old story. Briellah said nothing, knowing that the question did not need an answer.

‘The pride gathers near their target, and the great maned males lie down, to protect their declared area, and the young. It is the smaller females, the aunts and sisters and mothers, who go out to hunt, together. They pick their intended prey and work together as one to bring it down. One or two of them will single it out and drive it toward the others who wait in ambush. All their thought is on the kill, and how it is needed for the survival of the pride. Death is swift, a crushing bite to the spine or a choking grip to the throat. Their thoughts are focused, colored neither by mercy or hatred. It is simply a necessary thing for them.’

‘Why do you tell me this, my friend? This story of lions?’ asked Briellah, a frown creasing her brow.

Jamílah turned briefly toward her, her dark brown eyes unreadable in her smooth face. ‘The sun moves toward its rest. Night is coming, Briellah. And night is when the lions hunt their prey.’

Her gaze turned again to the west, a considering look now on her face. She would say no more, but turned the talk to those little things that pass between friends . . . the little things of women’s lives that knit their families and friends together . . . .

[Helkahothion]

“What is you name?” she whispered. He shuffled and then replied to her.

None of your damn business

"Thorgom….” he answered.

“Ok then Thorgom, don’t even try it, if you do you might wish you were dead….”

Whatever you say backstabber. No dagger will be my end. My, this girl is a danger to herself. She will get herself in great danger with this arrogance. If not with me than with Sevora.

Thorgom feared the idea of the beautiful girl being killed. She looked at his face and Thorgom realized that it had fear in it. Of course, her arrogance made her misinterpret the thing and she walked passed him with a smile. He played with the idea of nailing her in the back with a throwing axe for a second, but it might not be possible to fight his way out. The villagers could join in and that way he would not make it.

Thorgom pitched his tent at the outskirts of the village. Partly using an overhanging rock. It was quite cosy. The chair was in the corner, the bed in the back, and the big axe underneath it. It was always the same, but Thorgom liked it the way it was. He had more room due to the rock; it proved a hiding place behind the tent if needed. He could crawl underneath the back and not be seen when people went into his tent.
Not trusting anyone, he decided to take his bed and place it in the hidden part of his tent. Why he did it, he did not know. It was a feeling. A hunch so to speak. He flattened the bed and pushed it trough the back of the tent. He placed it up again, took his axe and went over to the Inn. He could use a drink by now.

The Inn looked dusty, but as long as they had booze, Thorgom was not complaining. He took out his two-handed axe and placed it next to his chair. Soon the Innkeeper came walking towards him.

"Weapons are not allowed." He said firm.

"Neither is killing and I just did that too. Stop the lecture and give me some ale. Please." Thorgom said threatening.

The man turned white and went back to the bar. Soon Thorgom had an ale in front of him. Thorgom gave the man a gold piece.

"Just keep it coming." He added with the piece.

The Innkeeper started filling the amount of mugs that Thorgom could get and soon his table was filled with ale. Thorgom leaned back on the chair and laid his feet resting on another chair. Of course disapproved by the Innkeeper, but the man did not have the heart to tell him. Thorgom emptied a tankard when he realised that the Priestess' were staying here. His mood lowered a bit. If one came here they would surely lecture him on how he should be more loyal to command and stay with the other man. Thorgom was not in the mood, but the ale was paid for and there was no one that could drag him away from it.

Outside, the sun was setting. The blood-red light coloured the horizon and the plains while the father and daughter were still lying on the altar. Thorgom walked passed them. The sight of the father near his daughter disgusted him. He regretted that he had placed him near her. He now understood Gurdhan's look.
He dragged the body of the man away from the altar and threw it in the dust, leaving it for the birds and other creatures. He apologised to the daughter, made a bow to her lifeless body and went to his tent.

[Lyra Greenleaf]

Essenia watched the ritual sacrifice with little emotion. She had never seen the point, really, but if the Dark Religion was the way that Umbar would get glory, then the dark Religion was important. She sneered as that oaf of a tribesman half killed the girl’s father. Neither were worth her consideration. He sold his daughter into sacrifice- just as her own father had done. Yes, Essenia’s slavery had not involved death but providing children- still in the end it made little difference. Unlike this girl she had escaped. She had a purpose in life, this girl obviously hadn’t.

When at last the Priestess decreed that they could go, Essenia moved unhurriedly back towards their camp. There was talking around her; village people shocked and scared, sailors awed or excited by the bloodshed. They were all pathetic. One life should not have such a command on their senses! Walking towards her she saw the loud man, the one who had sent her to flirt with the merchants and began to walk slower, to try to avoid him. She did not wish to be disturbed by his advances. He made no effort to approach her, but was walking so slowly that they converged anyway. Still he made no effort to talk.

Surprised, Essenia weakened enough to look at him. His dark eyes were shadowed, his face grim. Maliciously she smiled. She remembered a conversation in which he had told her that men were required to save women.
So he disapproves of this sacrifice! So he disapproves of this sacrifice! she thought. So he disapproves of this sacrifice! she thought. He dislikes to see women die. This could come in useful for revenge for what he forced me into.

Silently she sped up, soon leaving him and his faithful shadow far behind in the desert.

[ July 13, 2003: Message edited by: Lyra Greenleaf ]

[piosenniel]

Ealasaid's post

Ahmad and around a dozen of the men of the Painted Sand tribe rode out of the combined Painted Sand/Baobab camp toward the location where the young ones had chosen to place their own encampment. All seasoned warriors, the men were heavily armed, some with swords, others with bows. Even so, they rode warily, keeping a close eye on their surroundings. Conversation was kept to a minimum. None of them were sure what they expected to find at the young ones' camp, but whatever it was, they knew better than to take the children lightly.

As the warriors approached the camp, the archers remained to the rear where they could cover the others, while maintaining a wider perspective of the scene. Ahmad and Yusef rode in the front of the remainder of the delegation. They noticed sentries posted around the perimeters. Backed by the archers, five of the Painted Sand men rode directly into the camp, where they were intercepted by two young girls and a boy of about fifteen. One of the girls stepped forward, raising her hand for them to stop. The men reined in their horses, waiting for her to speak. Ahmad's hand rested on the hilt of his sword. Behind him, the archers all had arrows notched to their bowstrings.

"Halt!" ordered the girl, Jasara. "Who are you and why do you enter our camp under arm?"

Ahmad looked at her with interest. So, this was the leader of the Baobab rebels. "We are merely a search party," he told her calmly. "I am Ahmad bin Ishak. We come in search of my sister, Chani, who has gone missing." As he spoke, three of the warriors behind him broke rank and began to ride between the tents. They all carried their swords drawn, but casually placed across their laps or saddle horns. "Have you seen her?"

The two girls cast a fast glance between them, which answered Ahmad's question without words. For an instant, they seemed to be weighing their chances, their options, whether they should lie or be truthful, let the search continue or attack. A distant look came over Jasara's face as she seemed to listen to a voice, inaudible to anyone but her. Abruptly, she came to a decision.

"We have seen her," Jasara answered, finally. "She came upon us by surprise."

"And?"

"She is here," the second girl, Khasia, broke in, a small smile playing around the corners of her lips. The smile gave Ahmad the creeps, as though he had just seen a spider walk over his sister's grave. He noticed the way she stroked the hilt of her dagger as she spoke, and tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. If this girl had slain his sister, she would be the first to die, he promised himself that.

"Here!" a voice cried off to his right. It belonged to his kinsman, Adhem. Ahmad could see the crown of a tree in the direction from whence the voice had come. Rising in his stirrups, Ahmad turned his horse in that direction.

"Have you found her?" he shouted back.

"You'd better come!" Adhem answered.

With a nod to Yusef, who had remained at his right hand, Ahmad gave his horse a kick with his heel. He and Yusef rode in the direction of the tree. The two girls and the boy simply stepped out of the way, letting them pass. Once they had gotten out of earshot, Yusef muttered under his breath, "Watch your back around this place."

Ahmad nodded, his attention already concentrated on the scene at the base of the tree. Chani lay in a heap on the ground where Adhem had apparently just laid her down after cutting her loose from the tree. Rope bindings still hung from her wrists, bloody from her torn fingertips. Adhem said nothing, but stepped back as Ahmad dismounted and went to her, gathering her slender form in his arms. Yusef followed close behind.

"Chani?" Ahmad whispered, cradling his sister's head gently against his bicep. Her face was badly bruised and a bloodstained rag protruded from between her lips. When he tried to remove the rag from her mouth, she cried out in pain. Her eyes flickered open, then closed again, as tears streamed from the corners of her lowered lashes. Her hand found Ahmad's and squeezed it. A flash of fury raced through Ahmad's body as he realized what they had done to her. They had cut her tongue out.

Rising, with Chani still in his arms, he turned and thrust her toward Yusef. "Take her!" he ordered, handing her over to him, bodily. Yusef took her, but Chani struggled against Yusef, refusing to let go of Ahmad's hand. Unable to form the words anymore, she cried out inarticulately, trying to say "No!"

A tussle ensued between the three of them as Ahmad tried to break away, his only thought being to exact revenge against the person who had done this to his sister, but she refused to let him go. Chani's one hand held his in a deathgrip, while her other arm wrapped around his neck. She kicked at Yusef. Finally, Yusef released her and backed away. Ahmad took her back, and, holding her, his eyes scanned the small crowd of young ones who had assembled around them.

"WHO DID THIS?" he thundered at them. For an instant, there was no response at all, just silence and wide, watching eyes. Then, from somewhere in the rear, he heard a thin, watery chuckle. He turned to Yusef, his face black with rage. "Kill them. Kill them all."

Yusef shook his head. "No, cousin," he said softly, turning his head so that the assembled young ones could not hear his voice. "We mustn't. Not yet. Take her home first. She needs you now. We come back later."

Ahmad looked down at Chani, at the blood and tears drying on her face, then over at Adhem, who nodded grimly. "This won't go unpunished, Ahmad," Adhem said quietly. "Take her home."

Finally, Ahmad nodded. With the help of Adhem and Yusef, he remounted his horse and set Chani on the saddle in front of him. They would go. For now.

[ July 15, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

When she left Briellah, Jamílah made her way to Ismat and Duha’s tent. ‘Are you there?’ she called, standing outside the entry way. She could hear the sound of mats being placed on the ground, and the sound of people moving about within. In moments, Duha poked her head out of the tent, smiling when she saw it who it was.

‘Oh! We are just getting straightened away in here. But come in, come in! The mats are rolled out and we can sit and have a cup of tea.’ She held the tent flap open wide and motioned Jamílah in. Ismat was not there, but Munir was. He stayed close by his Mother now, since he had come back from the young ones’ camp. He drew back to his little sleeping area, intending to give the two women space to talk to one another, but Jamílah called his name, asking him to come sit with them. She wanted to speak with him as well.

Duha went through the ritual for making tea and serving it, and once that propriety was out of the way, Jamílah, turned to Munir and asked him several questions.

‘Tell me, Munir,’ she began, her eyes on his face, ‘were there others of the younger ones, besides you and the two girls, who also wished to leave Jasara’s group?’ There was a sharp intake of breath as Duha heard the question. She looked quickly at Munir, reaching her hand out to comfort him, though if truth be told it was more for herself than for him that she sought to touch him. ‘I can answer, Mother,’ he told her. ‘It will be alright.’

He leaned in closer to Jamílah and spoke quietly, as if he were still afraid that the others youngsters who had not come back would hear him. There were several others, he said, all of them the very little ones who had followed their brothers or sisters. They were afraid, they missed their mami’s, but they knew better than to try to get away. Punishment was swift and harsh, and so they kept quiet. Even their tears had stopped when the others had chided and threatened them.

‘What are their names, Munir, and do they keep to a certain place when they sleep?’ he listed their names for her, and she repeated them back until she was satisfied she remembered them all. And, ‘yes’, they were herded together, and ringed by older youth who kept an eye on them. Usually to one side or the other of the main group is where they slept, away from the noise of the main group since they tended to go to sleep earlier and where it was more convenient for them to step away with one of the older youth when nature called in the night.

Jamílah thanked him for his answers when he had finished, then rose to go. Duha stepped outside the tent with her, a worried expression on her face. ‘What is it you are planning to do? Will you tell me?’ Jamílah put her hand on Duha’s arm and gave it a reassuring squeeze. ‘Just keep your family close tonight, Duha. The wind is picking up, there is likely to be a sandstorm.’ ‘I will see you again tomorrow,’ she said as she waved farewell.

During the course of the afternoon, she made the rounds of the Baobab tents, speaking quietly to the women. Many she encouraged to stay safe inside their tents that night. To the rest she spoke other words. And they, in turn, nodded their heads to her and went to make their preparations . . .

______________________________________

That night . . .

Under cover of darkness, the fourteen women she had gathered met at the outskirts of the camp. Seven horses had been lent them, mounts belonging to the women of the Painted Sands. Dressed in dark breeches and shirts, their jewelry removed, they moved out silently, heading west, along a route north of the small spring and its stream. At their belts they carried a sheathed knife, coated with the sticky dark substance Jamílah had given them, and a short length of thin braided cord, wrapped in a coil. Five of them carried the small bows they used for hunting birds and lizards.

They stopped some distance from the youth encampment, behind a small rise, and Jamílah sent out two of the younger women to scout the perimeter of the camp. The rest waited silently as the two split off from their group, crouched low, moving swiftly in the shadows of the sparse trees and the intervening rocks and sandy hills. One to the north and one to the south.

The wind was picking up when the two returned. ‘There are sentries posted along the northern line of the camp,’ one said. ‘Five by my count, armed with knife and spear; two of them are drowsing. The group of smaller children I did not see. Most of the youth are bedded down, their blankets pulled over their heads to hide from the winds and dust that is rising.’

‘The little ones are on the southern side, in a small group at the western fringes,' reported the other woman. 'There are three older youth who are sleeping among them. And again there are guards along the perimeter on that side, spaced well apart. Six of them, armed. All with their faces hooded in some manner as a barrier to the flying dust. Most of them are seated, their backs turned against the wind.

Under cover of the rising wind and sand, the women moved west along the southern edge of the encampment, leading their mounts, keeping well away from the infrequent watch of the guards. When they reached the position of the little children’s area, two of them stayed back with the horses, while the others crept closer to the camp. The wind had intensified, and the swirling clouds of stinging sand and dirt beat against their exposed skin.

There were three guards nearest the little ones’ group, older youth nearing adulthood. Bellies to the ground, three of the women crawled as close as they could to each one. Cord in hands, they sprang up as they neared and moving swiftly to the rear of their prey, they pulled the cords tight about their throats, cutting off any cries for help. They left them lifeless, huddled on the ground, as if they had lain down to rest for a few moments. The other nine women moved in quickly at the sound of a short sharp call.

B’kweet . . . b’kweet . . . the call of a guinea hen to her little ones, bringing them in.

The three older youth who slept with the little ones were dispatched silently, their cries cut off with an efficient slash to the throat. The little ones whimpered and some cried out, and the women gathered as many as they could to them and shushed them gently. ‘We’ve come to take you home,’ they whispered softly. ‘Leave your belongings, and come quickly with us.’ Knives in hand, they led the little ones to where the three women who had dispatched the guards crouched, bows in hand, arrows nocked. The two women trailing the string of horses rode in swiftly at a sharp whistle.

The nearby guards had been roused by that time, hearing the movement of many feet and the sounds of the children as they cried out before the women hushed them. They rushed they group of children and their rescuers, grabbing away those that they could, and slashing out at the women. Several of the women were injured getting the children away from the guards, and one was killed – speared in the back by another of the older youth who had roused nearby. He was cut down by an arrow to his chest. A superficial wound at the most, and he laughed at it as he pulled it from him and charged after the escaping group. His laughter turned to horror as the burning poison on the arrow’s tip crept through him, and he felt his limbs grow numb, then icy cold, and at the last he could not breathe. His companions now roused ran to him, and some ran after the women and children, who by now had a good lead on them.

When they finally reached the horses and mounted up, drawing their small charges up to them, the stinging curtain of sand had grown thicker. They moved out, the wind at their backs, heading east toward the Painted Sands encampment. Nineteen little ones had been gotten out. Pulled close against the warmth of their rider’s body, the little ones huddled beneath blankets, safe from the storm . . .

The horses moved slowly through the sandstorm. Just before first light, the women reached the outskirts of the camp. A growing ululation rose from the women who had stayed behind, and who had watched for their return. It was answered in kind by the riders as they drew near.

Blankets were thrown back, and the heads of the little ones peeked out at the familiar sound. And many burst into tears of relief as the women swarmed about the riders, familiar hands reaching up to bring the children into the safety of their arms.

_____________________________________________

Lyra Greenleaf’s post

“Anyone care to lose a little money?” Sammael called in the middle of the camp. He wanted to forget what he couldn’t prevent; the image of a faceless girl screaming in terror kept appearing in his mind. He waved his cards at a member of Ghurdan’s crew who glanced his way, then again at Zasfal. Both looked uncertain.

“Come on” Sammael called again impatiently. “I’ll play with my eyes shut if it’ll make you feel better!”
“No need for that” answered a tall man, another of the acrobats. He was broad as well as tall, slow moving and slow speaking.

Sammael grinned widely at the thought of easy money. Quickly he lit a torch and put it into the ground, then sat cross legged on the floor and began to deal. Calmly his opponent sat himself down. They played a hand, and Sammael won easily. The man paid, showing no signs of ill-will, then gestured Sammael to deal again.

“Deal for three” Zasfal said from behind Sammael, then sat between the other two men. Sammael grinned wolfishly at him and did as he was bade. This hand was harder fought- the crewman had good cards, and Zasfal was a sneaky player with some talent. Sammael won, but the next went to Zasfal. During the fifth game, Zasfal smiled maliciously.

“I didn’t see you when the Priestess performed the sacrifice” he said with a sideways look.
Sammael ignored him.
“I would have thought that someone as dedicated as you would have been watching keenly” Zasfal added with feigned nonchalance.
Sammael shrugged, but the visions of a girl screaming were back.
“Why don’t you tell him about it Arun?” Zasfal asked the crewman.

The monosyllabic man looked surprisingly eager, and began to recite had happened in great detail- the strike of the knife, the site of the blood as it dripped slowly to the ground, the convulsions of the dying body, the look on the girl’s face from the first realisation what was happening to the pallor of death.

Sickened, Sammael lurched to his feet and vomited. Zasfal snorted, then began to laugh. He was soon joined by the other man. Anger coursed through Sammael.
What kind of a man will watch as a woman is killed? he thought with disgust, eying the two men still seated on the ground. Slowly he drew his belt knife and walked towards the crewman Arun. He jumped to his feet, drawing his own knife, but his shoulders were still shaking from laughter. His glance told Sammael that he expected a weak opponent, one who would not kill- one that would show mercy.

Without warning he lunged and caught the other man off guard. He withdrew, then lunged a second time, knocking the man’s knife from his hand. Finally Sammael looked into the man’s eyes and slowly drew his knife across his throat. With satisfaction he watched the body fall, and life leave the man’s face. He looked around. Zasfal had run, that was not surprising. Maybe one day it would be his turn, but not now. Feeling much better Sammael cleaned his knife on the fallen man’s sleeve and walked away to his tent.

[ July 17, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Jasara had been roused by the noises made and once she saw the damage she knew she had made a terrible mistake in feeling comfortable so close to the camps. Eight of the older young were dead, either strangled to death or slain. The plan had been well-thought and had depended greatly on the hope that the youth would be unorganized or unsuspectings. The attackers had done well, Jasara knew.

"Most of the children under twelve have been taken," Nasir informed Jasara emotionlessly. In his left hand was a bloody spear, and with his other hand he held a little boy tightly by the wrist. Uri followed Nasir, two young children in tow, and Khasia carried another young one in her arms. Some were whimpering slightly, and the others were holding back tears. They were the only ones forgotten or recaptured.

Jasara turned away from them, her head began to ache and she began to seriously doubt her defiance of the elders. What was she supposed to do? She had to stay strong, or Khasia would take over, most likely leaving Jasara to die by herself in the process. Jasara's eyes began to hurt along with her head, when the familiar voice returned to her.

Retaliation, Jasara. Show them that you are willing to fight back after a loss. Show them you children are adamant.

Jasara wanted to discard the voice and somehow be rid of it. If it were not for the voice, the visions, and the premonitions, Jasara would not have gotten anyone, especially herself, into this mess. But her voice was not like Fouad's rock. She could not toss a magic stone away and be rid of the evil that plagued her, it was with her forever.

"We will retaliate," Jasara informed the leaders after a moment for consideration of the voice's orders. Her voice was shaky, but strong as the others nodded. "Take the children away, put them under competent guards. I need to speak with you all. Nasir, bring Najah. The five of us will talk."

Nasir nodded and went to go get Najah as the rest of the leaders took the fastest way to the nearby stream. When Najah and Nasir had joined them, Jasara was finally prepared to inform them of her plan. She knew Nasir would never accept it willingly, she knew Najah and Khasia might enjoy it, and she knew that Uri would be skeptical but would accept for the greater good of the tribe.

"We've lost eight able warriors and many children. We probably have only thirty or forty left. However, we need to show the elders that we are not afraid to take drastic measures," Jasara began, preparing the other leaders for her slightly radical idea. "We kill them. Any child who can not readily and properly wield a weapon will be killed and left in the centermost area of the Baobab-Painted Sand Tribe. They waste food and time, and would only subject us to further weakness."

Najah had a wicked grin on her face, and Khasia looked indifferent. Nasir was already shaking his head defiantly, while Uri looked at Jasara critically, as if considering something she had not thought of. Jasara nodded; she had expected these reactions. She didn't even feel the need to further push her campaign and idea in their faces.

"I accept!" Khasia and Najah said simultaneously. Khasia answered as if it were a grim admittance, but Najah seemed rather excited and anxious. Nasir was still shaking his head violently, but Uri was the next to add to the proceedings.

"Jasara has a good point and a good idea. This could only strengthen our tribe, not weaken it, as the sacrificed would be young who are of no use. I accept, for the greater good of the tribe," finished Uri, with a look to Nasir. "Nasir, you are outnumbered four to one. Jasara will not lead us to our downfall, friend. Trust."

Nasir said naught, but he sent an evil look Jasara's way. Jasara dismissed it, knowing that deep down Nasir knew it would be best and that he would be loyal to the tribe no matter what decision were made. The group had an agreement: they would sacrifice any useless young and leave them at their parent's tent, and Uri would lead the way into the familiar camp. Only capable soldiers would be left.

"The first to go will be the four who were left behind by the attackers. Najah and Nasir will have a late practice, and determine who will be useful and who will be useless. Remember that this is mostly to show the elders what we are willing to do, so don't give up a warrior if they are decent enough to fight when the time comes. Then while they try and get some last sleep before dawn, we will slit the throats of those chosen to be sacrificed. Uri, you'll lead us into the tribe of elders and we'll leave them towards the center," Jasara went over everything one last time and was glad to recieve nods of agreement and understanding around the group.

The four children had tentatively fallen asleep while the group had been talking, and when they got back they were killed swiftly and silently with a mercy strike to the throat. The children's bodies were pulled behind a tree while Nasir and Najah began the late training lesson.

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

Khasia's eyes were narrowed and expressionless as she listened to Jasara's plan. It was wise, Khasia was surprised to hear such wisdom from her sister. She had been so concerned about numbers, so concerned about strength. But killing the young ones would be the right way, the way of the strong. She nodded resolutely as Najah chimed in her agreement. "I accept."

The four youngest children were killed quickly, mercifully. Khasia wiped her knife on a tuft of grass and stepped back from the widening pool of blood where she had slit the throat of the youngest boy. Grabbing his limp wrists she pulled him across the hot ground to the place where the other bodies had been left.

Najah's late training session was strenuous, but Khasia fought hard, not doubting that her sister would order her death too, should she fail. The broadsword was too heavy for her, and as she sparred with Najah her hands shook and the other girl struck it quickly from Khasia's nerveless fingers. But her aim with the throwing spears was deadly, and her bowshot was true. Sweating, she shook her braids back from her face and nodded in grim satisfaction. Bare feet padding silently across the baked earth, Khasia watched the other children train, eyeing them idly as though it made no difference whether they passed or failed.

Khasia winced as one girl sliced across her arm with her own sword blade. A quick mental note added her to the list of failed warriors. Another boy, fairly young, hit nothing with six consecutive spears. Khasia pursed her lips unhappily. There were so many. So many who were helpless with their best weapon. So many who needed much training to fight competently. Najah's voice pierced the afternoon, calling the sparring children to a halt, sending them to the stream for a drink.

Khasia made her way to where Jasara, Najah, Nasir and Uri stood. Jasara gazed after the sweatsoaked line of children disappearing in the direction of the stream. "How do they look?" Najah, Khasia, and Nasir exchanged looks. They hadn't looked great.

"How many can we spare, Jasara?" Najah asked calmly. "The Painted Sand group is much stronger and better trained."

"That is to be expected," cut in Uri, smoothly. "But there are a few of ours who could be spared. And six or seven of yours." A catlike grin spread over his face, satisfaction with his own recruits' comparative preparedness. Khasia wanted to smack him, suddenly, but she restrained herself, speaking instead.

"Marah is terrible with a sword. And Qitan is too small to lift one properly." Jasara nodded, as she glanced at Nasir and Najah. After much deliberation, two more Baobab youth and one Painted Sand were selected as unnecessary to the tribe's defense. Exchanging one final meaningful glance, the five youth separated, each headed to find one of the condemned children.

The firey red of the sunset sky was cooling to an ashy grey as Khasia approached the boy, Qitan. He was small, weak, pitiful, useless. Khasia stared at him with impassive eyes as he turned from his work to face her. The blade of the dagger in her hand was a matte grey, she almost wished it would glint ominously, give away her plans, give her cause for chase. But no. Jasara was right, it must be done quietly, mercifully. There could be no struggle. "Qitan." she said softly, tonelessly. He nodded in the fading light, his large eyes inquisitive. "You have failed in your training, Qitan. You will never be a warrior. We have decided you are no good to us."

His breath quickened, but he didn't move or show fear. "Am I to be sent home?" he asked, with a glint of anger lurking in his eyes. Khasia nodded, stepped closer.

"Yes, Qitan, that's it. Sent home." She stepped closer still, slashed her dagger across his throat. Her eyes remained impassive as he crumpled to the ground, last breaths rasping in his severed throat. Leaving the body where it lay, Khasia looked with disgust at the blood spattered all over her skirt and tunic. She spun in her tracks and made her way back to where she could see Jasara and Nasir sitting together beside a fire.

She had barely reached them when Najah and Uri approached from another direction. Uri's hands were boodstained, and Najah carried a bloodied knife in front of her. Her words carried the sentiment they all shared. "They were never warriors, they died like children." Jasara spat on the ground as Nasir and Uri went to gather the bodies together. "We will need more youths to carry the dead, Jasara." Najah pointed out sagely.

"Yes." Jasara confirmed. "Go find them, Najah. Two of ours and two of Uri's, strong and closemouthed. Khasia and I will prepare the dead." A tremor went down Khasia's spine at the sound of those words, prepare the dead. She nodded at her sister, and the two moved to the place where the bodies of the youngest children had been left. Jasara had procured a coil of rope and a pot of grease mixed with red pigments. Khasia watched as Jasara moved to the body of the first boy and painted an angry red eye on the skin of his bare chest. Khasia followed Jasara's lead, tearing away the clothing from the next girl's stomach and marking her with the symbol of the eye. After each child was marked their hands were tied above their heads with Jasara's rope.

Soon the little company was ready to go, each figure clothed in dark colors, and carrying a corpse slung across its shoulders. Jasara nodded at them, and they crept through the desert dark in single file. Stopping a far cry from the edge of the larger tribe's camp the nearest outlying sentry was silenced by one of Khasia's spears, and they crept onward. The encampment was silent, the dark silhouettes of tents against the sky contrasted with the orange glow of flickering fires. The young people moved cautiously to the center of the camp, where a small tree grew.

Dropping their burdens, Khasia, Jasara, and Najah hoisted themselves into the tree's lower branches. Each rope was passed up to them, each knot stealthily tied, each body left to hang, hair and tattered clothing flickering in the light breeze. Light as cats the three girls descended from the tree, and the small party slipped away, nine shadows departing into the openness of the night, leaving nine smaller shadows swaying suspended behind them.

[Ealasaid]

BRIELLAH

On the morning after the rescue of the children from the other camp, Briellah awoke just as the first fingers of dawn reached into the sky over the eastern mountains. Her family was in turmoil. Her older daughter had been mutilated, her husband and son were stalking about in horrible rages, and her younger daughter had descended into a fit of hysterics at the sight of poor Chani. The two girls were both resting now, thanks to a potion Briellah had learned earlier from Jamilah. Sighing, Briellah looked over at them. Poor Chani. She had lost a lot of blood and there was a danger of infection. She would have to be monitored closely. As for Shushila, Briellah had a feeling there was more to her distress than just empathy for her sister. Perhaps a touch of guilt? Briellah decided to let it go for the moment, but if life ever returned to normal, she would get to the bottom of it then.

Pulling her robes closer around her to ward off the morning chill, Briellah stepped out the flap of her tent to start a small fire. She wanted to have hot water ready for Chani the moment she awoke so that she could brew hot, salty water for the wound in her mouth, herbal tea for the wound in her soul. She had no sooner bent over the fire pit went a keening wail split the silence of the morning. Dropping her handful of kindling on the ground, Briellah ran in the direction of the sound. When she arrived at the foot of the great tree that stood on the edge of the market ground, she stopped short. Her mouth fell open in horror and disbelief.

At first she thought they were just bundles of old clothing, the nine shapes that hung from the old tree branches, twisting in the breeze, like some kind of overgrown seedpods. Then, she saw that they were children. Dead children. Strung up like criminals. Each one had been mutilated and marked with the sign of the eye. Knowing it was pointless even as she did it, Briellah made a sign with her hand that had been used for centuries to ward off the evil eye. Such things would be useless against this eye, but still she did it. She moved forward toward the woman who had wailed, recognizing her as a young woman of the Rain clan. She was still wailing at the top of her voice, holding the dangling foot of one of the children against her heart. Briellah went to her and wrapped the woman in her arms.

"Hana, is it?" asked Briellah. The woman nodded through her tears, the wailing choking off for a moment into sobs. "Is this your child?"

Hana nodded again. Briellah tightened her hold around the woman's shoulders, but said nothing. The rest of the tribe had already begun to join them. Other mothers, recognizing their children had already begun to wail. There was nothing she could say.

[piosenniel]

Jamílah rubbed the middle of her forehead with her first two fingers. A headache was brewing behind her eyes - it made her face pale, her features look pinched and worn. No tears came from her eyes. They were dry now, all cried out since she first had heard what had been found. She had already cried all she could for the three little ones of her tribe whose bodies had hung from the tree . . . she had cried for their mothers and fathers, for their families . . . and she had cried in frustration for herself, because they could not bring them all to safety.

There were no more tears left in her, and surprisingly, no hatred for the ones who had done this . . . only the resolve that this would not happen again.

Qirfah and Qamar stood to either side of her, leaning against her, their heads on her shoulders, their arms twined about her waist, as if they were still little girls and she, the mother who would somehow bring them comfort.

But comfort was something she had naught to give either.

‘Daughters,’ she said to them, slipping from their embrace. ‘Help the other women bear the little ones away, and help them clean and clothe them. Later we will honor them and say farewell, singing their spirits away from us for now.’

‘And you, Mother. What are you going to be doing?’ asked Qamar, wiping her own eyes with the edge of her shawl. Her eyes flicked to her sister’s teary face, and she held on tight to her hand.

‘The Elders must meet now,’ said Jamílah quietly, drawing them close with her hands, kissing each softly on the cheek. ‘We have some things that must be decided and soon.’ She would say no more, just urged them toward the stricken families as she turned and left the market ground.

____________________________________

Faruq’s tent was where they all agreed to meet. Jamílah, not standing on ceremony, pulled aside the opening flap and ducked her head in, stepping in quickly without waiting to be asked in. No lamps had been lit, and the only light was from the dawning day outside as it shone in mutedly through the thin fabric of the tent. She was surprised, as her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, to see many of the clan leaders of the Painted Sand tribe also present.

She had expected just a brief discussion to occur about what was needed to be done, and then some further talk on how they would implement their plan. But there seemed to be a heated exchange already going on between the leaders of the Painted Sand and the Elders of the Baobab. ‘What has happened”’ she whispered to Hafsa of the Civet clan. Hafsa leaned in close to her and spoke low.

‘The Elders proposed the plan we had briefly discussed the day we moved the tribe here to the Painted Sand encampment. The women and children would be gathered together with their belongings, and accompanied by a small troop of warriors, would travel swiftly to a safe place far from here. Many of us would stay here, to hunt out the remainder of the young and eliminate enough of them until they no longer present a danger to us.’ She thrust her chin upward toward the side of the tent where the Painted Sand leaders sat, anger washing openly over their features. ‘They want to combine forces and attack and annihilate all the young who have joined Jasara’s group as soon as possible.’

The debate went back and forth between the two tribes for some time, each representative standing up to promote his tribe’s own feelings on the matter. Jamílah’s headache grew stronger as precious time dragged on and the arguments became more entrenched.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Some time later, as Asim, of the Wild Dog clan spoke, there was a sound of hooves, come clattering up to Faruq’s tent, and a loud, hurried conversation, two voices, just outside the tent’s flap. One of the Wind Scorpion men standing guard at the entry to the meeting, poked his head inside the tent, saying Latif, the goat trader of the Baobab, was outside and had some news he must share right away with the Elders.

Normally a neatly dressed, calm person, the man who presented himself to the Elders was one whose raiment and mind were in a state of disarray, turmoil, and fright. He excused his appearance saying he had ridden quickly, stopping briefly only once for the sake of his mount, from the village he had gone to, the one just two days ride from here to the west.

‘A great dark army . . . they named themselves the Army of the Eye, I think . . . terrible, terrible,’ he said as he described them. He spoke of the sacrifice that had been demanded and done, of the talk of devotion and obedience to the Eye, and of the dark Priestess. It was a grim picture that he drew, made grimmer and more chilling with his last words.

‘We must get away,’ Latif pleaded, searching the faces of the Elders for understanding. ‘The Priestess and her Army are on the move again. And they are heading our way . . .’

[ July 17, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Ealasaid]

"We must get away!" pleaded Latif. "The priestess and her army are on the move again. And they are heading our way..."

A burst of commentary rose from the elders on both sides, some arguing for flight, others for standing firm. Slowly, Ishak bin Ishak raised his hand in a gesture for silence. "How many do they number?" he asked, his deep voice calm and grim.

Latif shook his head. "I don't know, but they are many. You mustn't think of staying. You will be slaughtered." His eyes scanned the many faces. "Please believe me. To stay will be to die."

Ishak nodded sagely, looking toward Faruq, the acknowledged leader of the Baobab. "Your people are a brave people," he said after a fresh burst of argument had died away. "I know you would not flee if danger were not imminent. But we have unfinished business here at hand. What of the young people who have turned against us in favor of this eye? Do we let them slaughter and maim our children with impunity? Do we let them go to this priestess, proudly, with blood on their hands, and tell her how they, a small band of raggedy children, put the great Baobab and Painted Sand tribes to flight?"

He looked around the tent at the gathered faces. "I say no."

"We are a warrior tribe. We are born warriors. We live as warriors. And we die like warriors." He stood. Drawing his sword from its scabbard, he held the shining blade in front of him like a challenge. "We will resist this Eye. We will ride against the murderers of our children. If it be our fate, then our blood will paint the sand of this desert." He waited again as a murmur of reaction rose and fell amongst the other elders. "But it will be the blood of warriors."

"Yet I also agree with Faruq," he continued after a moment. "I agree that we should send our women and children south and east into the mountains. I know of a haven in the high land that can be easily defended by few. We will send them there. The rest of us will stay and attend to our unfinished business, but we must act at once, before this new army arrives. Once we have exacted our revenge against these murderers of children, then we will decide what to do about the new threat." He looked around the room. "Are you with me?"

[Helkahothion]

Sammael was on his way to the tent, he opened the flap, but was dragged to the side by a strong arm. He was thrown to the ground and re-pulled his dagger. He looked up in a stern face. His thoughts were ravaging as he realized he looked in the stern face of Thorgom.
This man surely would not show mercy and was a dangerous foe. Sammael had a bit of doubt if was able, but knew he could handle him. He stood up and took a threatening pose. Thorgom did not seem impressed. Sammael had heard how the man had slaughtered the father. Sammael made a strike and his blade made a cut on the cheeck or Thorgom. Thorgom licked the blood and watched. Sammael looked at him and punched him to the ground. Thorgom got agitaed and suddenly made a swing with his throwing axe and Sammael's knife went flying. He felt a bit cornered and wanted to shout for help, but Thorgom walking away and beckoning him to follow caught him of.

Sammael was led to Thorgom's tent and took the chair in the corner. Thorgom sad on the ground with crossed legs. Sammael had no idea why he was here and why he followed, but he was interested in a way in what the man had to say. Thorgom was looking at Sammael as he was taking a seat.

"As a leader, I don't think it will get you much respect if you stab a disobedient to death. Even if he is pulling the blood from underneath your nails. If your soldiers hold a grudge against you or have fear, it will only leave you watching your back. And that is not a pleasant feeling." Thorgom said in a calm voice.

"You think you can tell me what to do? I will lead in my own way."

"Yes whatever you say. Didn't that other leader need to tell them to listen to you? But it's up to you to do with what I tell to you. You don't approve of these sacrifices do you?"

Thorgom's question came as a surprise to Sammael and before he could help it he had already said "no".

"I don't either. It is a cruel fact that has no use. She could have done much more use instead of dying. Here father was even worse. He sold his daughter and that is why he deserved to die. If she hadn't given the order he would have got the axe anyway. What I just want to tell you, for some reason you look like a decent man and I would be eager to follow you. I don't trust any of these man here, they would sell their own mother if it was profitable to them. When the time is there, I'll watch your back."


"That's all? That's why I am here?" Sammael thought.

"Ehm okay. I'll keep that in mind. Well, I'm heading back to camp. You want to join me?"

"Yeah sure, I could use some distraction of this damn place. Nothing happens here."

[ July 19, 2003: Message edited by: Helkahothion ]

[piosenniel]

Faruq motioned the other Elders to gather round him, and for a few moments they stood together in a tight knot, the murmur of their soft voices rising and falling in the tent. Hafsa, the Elder of the Civet clan, had shaken her head ‘no’ in a determined manner. Jamílah leaned in close to her, putting her hand on the woman’s arm, and spoke quietly to her as the others waited. Her head shaking ‘no’, still, but in a resigned manner, Hafsa said a few words to the Elders, then turned to face the others in the room.

‘We have decided,’ said Faruq. ‘We wish to join you in this unfinished business of the children.’ Curious glances slid Hafsa’s way, unasked questions about her decision. Had she counseled against the action, saying that they should flee? Hafsa colored under the scrutiny, but stood tall and spoke out.

‘Know this! I thirst for revenge against those murdering ghosts of my tribe. And were it my choice, we would ride out this very moment and destroy them.’ She paused and there were murmurs of approval on the lips of many. ‘But I am an Elder of the Tribe, and I have been asked to take up another task.’ Her fist slapped down hard against the palm of her open hand. ‘My heart rides with you when you do this thing, but I will be with the women and children of the Baobab tribe as they flee to safety. I will be the Elder that ties them to the old ways in their new place.’

She turned back to the Elders who stood behind her. ‘We will lay out the mats for you in our meetings, and look for your swift return.’ Saying that, she went out the door of the tent, already making preparations in her head what must be done.

Faruq nodded his head to her as she left, then turned back to Ishak. ‘We will send some of our warriors with the women and children. Shall we agree to send the treasures of our tribes together on this journey? Will you also spare some warriors for your women and children? And perhaps the horses to see them all swiftly on their way.’

‘Once this is done, then let us go out together and strike down the murderous jackals. The sooner done, the better . . .’

[ July 21, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Ealasaid’s post

ISHAK BIN ISHAK

Faruq turned to Ishak bin Ishak. "We will send some of our warriors with the women and children. Shall we agree to send the treasures of our tribes together on this journey? Will you also spare some warriors for your women and children? And perhaps the horses to see them all swiftly on their way."

"Once this is done, then let us go out together and strike down the murderous jackals. The sooner done, the better."

Ishak bin Ishak nodded. "What warriors we can spare will escort our women and children. Our treasures, both living and otherwise, will be well guarded by warriors of both tribes. What horses are not needed by the warriors who stay behind are at the disposal of you and your people. We have been blessed with a large herd. There should be enough horses for all." He bowed to Faruq. "You and I, Faruq, have always been friends. We shall now be as brothers in this time of crisis. My sword and the swords of my tribesmen are yours."

Faruq bowed in return. "My sword and the swords of my tribesmen are yours, as well, brother Ishak. But now we must make haste."

"Yes," agreed Ishak. "We must make haste." There were few formalities as the meeting broke up and the elders hurried to break their camps.

[ July 20, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Nerindel's Post

Ghurdan soon grew bored of the inn, there was no entertainment to be had this night and the company staying at the inn kept to their rooms, He ate the inns poor excuse for a meal and some of it's substandard ale, before joining in a game of cards with some of the locals, but he gained no satisfaction from beating these villagers and taking their money.

Just then, an out of breath warrior burst into the inn "Captain!" he cried trying to catch his breath, Ghurdan recognised him as one of his crew but he could not recall the name. "What is it?" he hissed pulling the man to a dark corner of the inn. "Sammael" he puffed, Ghurdan glared at the middle aged man "what has he to do with me!" he demanded, "He killed Arun !" the man before him spat. Now Arun was a name Ghurdan remembered, the blood thirsty young man had killed many Gondorian soldiers in their last mission for the eye.

"how did this happen?" Ghurdan fumed Rufan proceeded to inform Ghurdan of the events leading to Aruns death in great detail, not daring to embellish the truth under his captains dark watchful gaze, "The crew are calling for blood?" he finished. "no doubt they are !" he chuckled, but they are to do nothing, the crew man looked at him incredulously "that's an order. Ghurdan shot warningly "I, will deal with Sammael" the man, now wearing a wicked, almost knowing grin, nodded his head curtly and headed back to camp.

Ghurdan finished his ale in one gulp and made his way swiftly across the inn and through the door that lead to the inns guest rooms, he found Sevora's room and knocked sharply on the door, As expected Rahvin opened it, he did not speak but simply waited for Ghurdan to tell him what he wanted. past him Ghurdan could see Dristi slumped on the ground holding her neck. 'Sevora has just dealt out her punishment' he thought pleased that he may have caught Sevora in the right fame of mood for what he was about to ask.

"I wish to speak with our dark mistress, but if she is otherwi...." "No, no " Sevora grinned coming to the door herself, "Dristi was just leaving " She said shooting the priestess a cold look as she left. he could not see Dristi's eyes as she tried to pull the collar of her robes higher to hide the burn marks around her neck. "Come in Black Heart, have a seat" she grinned gesturing to a wooden stool that sat under one of the wooden ceiling beams, Looking from the beam to the stool to the pieces of rope still lying on the floor he decided instead to just stand.Both Sevora and Rahvin seemed to find this highly amusing, but he went on "A great injustice has been delivered to me this night!" Sevora raised an eyebrow in interest "how so ?" she asked nonchalantly "One of my crew has been murdered by another of our company”

Sevora's eyes widened with glee "and you wish me to punish the murderer" "No, oh great one to the eye, I humbly request that I be allowed to deal out a punishment of my own choosing." Sevora was curious, nearly all Ghurdans punishments resulted in death. she fixed him with a steely gaze and in a commanding voice she said "Do not kill them, we will need every warrior we have, if we are to meet any resistance." Ghurdan nodded curtly and went on, "I mean not to kill them, but to abject them to a little humiliation to appease my blood thirsty crew, who cry for revenge." Yes, I see" she sneered, realising the problems that would occur if Ghurdans crew revolted.

Ghurdan was pleased that this conversation was so far going well, but then the question he had not wanted to answer came, "So who and what caused this incident?" Sevora asked him, her eyes shining with anticipation of the answer, "Sammael, Zasfal and the murdered man Arun had a disagreement during a game of cards, It was Sammael that murdered Arun." he answered carefully, he did not include the reason of the disagreement for he knew that if Sevora knew of Sammaels dislike for her Sacrifice she would surely wish to punish the young man herself. He watched as the priestess mulled over his words "Very well ," she said at last. Grinning Ghurdan made to leave, "As long as Rahvin aids you in your punishment" she added coldly. Ghurdans grin dropped abruptly at her words and as she started to chuckle he realised that she had played with him once more. "Very well " he said curtly and turning to Rahvin he added "Come to my tent Before the others awake". Bowing respectfully to Sevora he left.

He already knew how he was going to punish the pair, yes he was going to punish Zasfal for his part too, he had all ready warned him but it had obviously not sunk into his thick skull, so he was left with on other recourse. As he walked back to the Camp he saw Thorgoms tent and his thoughts turned to the tribes people they would soon face, This man could tell him much of how these people fight, so he made his way quietly to Thorgoms tent with the intent to question the large tribal man, But as he reached it he heard voices inside:

"You don't approve of these sacrifices do you?"
"no".
"I don't either. It is a cruel fact that has no use. She could have done much more use instead of dying. Here father was even worse. He sold his daughter and that is why he deserved to die. If she hadn't given the order he would have got the axe anyway. What I just want to tell you, for some reason you look like a decent man and I would be eager to follow you. I don't trust any of these man here, they would sell their own mother if it was profitable to them. When the time is there, I'll watch your back."

Ghurdan had heard enough, once out of ear shot of the tent he laughed, "Thanks for the warning old man" and slipped silently into his tent, a few of his men where there waiting of his return, he glowered at them, telling them only the he would require six of the strongest among them to return before first light with the heavy ropes. "Now leave me" he ordered sharply.


Ghurdan was awake long before the sun started to rise, the six crew soon arrived with the rope, followed almost at once by Rahvin, He told each of them what he required of them turning last to Rahvin, "Seeing as you believe Zasfal to be foolish you can punish him, in the same way off course," he said emotionlessly.

Rahvin and two of the six crew made their way silently to Zasfal's tent, as Ghurdan and the other Four went to Sammaels, " is someone watching the tribesman's tent" He whispered to the large man beside him, who nodded his affirmation. So with the first ray's of the sun piercing the horizon they entered Sammael's tent swords already drawn.

Sammael and Damodred woke up immediately reaching for their weapons, But the four crewmen surrounded Domodred, their swords wavering level with his throat, "What is the meaning of this !" Sammael demanded waving his dagger threateningly at Ghurdan. "I do not believe you are in a position to demand anything" Ghurdan said calmly, and as he did one of the crew men lowered his sword to Damodreds heart, Seeing this Sammael reluctantly lowered his dagger.

"You are the one who committed a crime and you are the one to be punished" he said coldly to Sammael, " "Take the other one out of here!" he ordered " and he is not to be harmed, but he is not to interfer. he said looking again to Sammael. He could feel Damodred looked to Sammael, who nodded curtly. "Now are you going to remove your weapons or am I to remove them for you.

Sammael raised his dagger in defiance, but Ghurdan just made one swift stroke, Sammael began to laugh at Ghurdans obvious miss but stopped as his belt and Scimitars fell to the ground, He did not try to kill him only disarm him as he had said. He knew that if he reach for his scimitars he would be vulnerable to any attack Ghurdan made, so instead he advanced on Ghurdan wielding his dagger, the pair parried blows for a short while, Sammael lunging once or twice, but Ghurdan was quick and as Sammael lunged again Ghurdan grabbed his wrist and turning around behind him, pulled his arm up his back until he eventually dropped the dagger. And then with his sword under Sammael's chin he calmly walked him from the tent, were two men hurried to bind Sammael's hands tightly infront of him, "It's nothing personal" he whispered darkly in Sammaels ear as he led him to the back of the cart.

As they got there they could see Rahvin tying Zasfal to the back of the cart, Ghurdan did likewise with Sammael, then he jumped up on to the back of the cart to address the now gathering warriors. "These two men are to be punished for their crimes, They are to stay bound until nightfall without food or water and anyone found aiding them will be punished likewise " He growled, deliberately directing the last words to Damodred and Thorgom.

Ghurdan returned to Sammaels tent and picked up his weapons, As he had expected Damodred had followed him, "I had to do it" he said not caring if the older man believed him or not "you do not Kill a member of your crew and not expect the men to want recompense!" he slowly turned to face Damodred, the older man was considering his words. Ghurdan held out Sammaels weapons, "He will still need these" he said handing the weapons to Damodred. Also you should advise your young friend to be more careful with his tongue if The Red Flame had heard his words regarding the sacrifice he would have had more to deal with than a little humiliation.

Within an hour the camp was packed up and ready to leave, Sevora, Dristi and Naramarth returned shortly afterwards and ordered them to leave, with Zasfal And Sammael still tied to the back of the cart.

[ July 20, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Ealasaid]

Not invited this time to the counsel of elders, Ahmad spent the duration of the meeting hanging about the outside of the tent with a group of other young warriors and hunters of both tribes, listening and trying to determine what was happening. When Hafsa, the Elder of the Baobab's Civet clan, came out early, they all rose and moved toward her for news. She shook her head at them and hurried away, her face stern. The young men all went back to their earlier postures and waiting.

"What do you suppose is happening?" asked one of the Baobab hunters. "I hear a lot of talk about fighting or staying or leaving, but I can't tell what has been decided. I know I didn't much like the sound of what Latif had to say."

Ahmad nodded. They had all heard the tidings brought by Latif, the Baobab goat trader, of the approaching High Priestess and her army. "I can't imagine we will do anything but fight," he said finally. "It's the way of my people. But I, too, can't say I like the sound of it."

"Nor I," rejoined Adhem, Ahmad's kinsman, the one who had found Chani tied to the tree the day before. "It's an evil wind that blows out of the west."

The others merely nodded their agreement and went back to listening. When the meeting broke a short time later and the elders of both tribes came out, the young men all stood again and stepped forward to learn what would happen next. The four riders, two from the Baobab and two from the Painted Sand, were selected and sent off at once. Seeing that Adhem was one of them, Ahmad caught his arm as he turned to go.

"Ride fast, cousin," he said softly. "May your eyes and ears be sharp. I wish that I rode in your place."

Adhem smiled grimly. "I wish you were riding with us. There is no one else I would rather have at my right hand. But we will ride together when the time comes."

"We will." Ahmad released Adhem's arm and watched as he and the Grass clan warrior, who had also been chosen, turned and departed. Ahmad's dark eyes filled with envy as he followed the movements of the two as they made their way back to their tents for their saddles and leather armor. Ahmad wanted desperately to ride with the scouting party after the group who had maimed his sister. He needed the action, hated the waiting. Finally, he turned and walked back toward his family's compound. There was packing to do and many preparations to make in haste in order for his mother and sisters to get underway. He and his father would remain behind.

On his way back through the massive combined encampment of the Baobab and Painted Sand tribes, he passed close to a small grouping of familiar tents. When he saw the now-still obsidian windchime hanging on the tentpost outside of one, he stopped. It was Qirfah's tent. He hesitated for only an instant, then he changed direction and walked purposefully in its direction. If this High Priestess was coming with her army and if his tribe rode out against her, odds were that he would be riding to his death. If that was the case, then he owed it to himself to speak with Qirfah one last time.

Almost as if she knew he would be there, Qirfah appeared suddenly through the tent flap, carrying her toddler son in her arms. Ahmad's breath caught in his throat at the sight of her. Over two years had passed since he had last seen her or held her in his arms. She was as beautiful, more beautiful, than he remembered. An instant passed before she noticed him. During that time, he simply gazed at her, the curve of her cheek as she kissed the child in her arms, the sun shining off her lustrous black hair. When she looked up and saw him, their eyes meeting, she straightened, then grew perfecty still. A slight flush rose in her cheeks.

"Qirfah," he whispered. And she smiled.

Putting the child down, she bade him to go find his sister. Once the boy had disappeared back into the tent, she looked again at Ahmad. "Did you see him?" she asked softly, moving toward him.

He nodded, a pang of jealousy running through him at the thought of her husband. "Your son is a fine boy," he said, fighting to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"Your son," she echoed, with a soft, knowing smile. "Is a fine boy." She reached him and, taking his hand, laced her fingers through his. He looked down at her with first bewilderment, then a dawning understanding.

"Mine?"

When she nodded, it was all he could do not to take her in his arms right there, but, as it was, he pulled her, laughing, to a relatively hidden spot between the tents. When he was sure they were not observed, he did take her into his embrace and kissed her, slowly and deeply, with all the emotion he had been forced to deny for the past two years. When they parted again, she smiled up at him, her eyes shining.

"I knew you would come," she whispered. Her fingers reached up and touched the shard of obsidian he wore on the cord around his neck. "I saw you the night you came to my tent. I knew you would come back."

"I will always come back for you," he said gently, pulling her closer against his chest. If it were up to him, he would have stayed like that, with her, forever. She was the only woman he had ever loved. When he had refused his family's urgings that he marry, it was because of her. If only she knew how often he had daydreamed of simply galloping into her camp and carrying her off, she would have laughed out loud. Instead, she pulled away from him, a new sadness rising in her dark eyes.

"Will you?" she asked. "Will you always come back?"

"Always," he vowed, knowing that she was thinking of the days that lay immediately ahead of them, of murdered children, and an army that grew nearer as they spoke. "I promise you, Qirfah, as long as there is even a breath of life in me, I will come back to you." He caught her hand and drew it to his lips.

She smiled again, but sadly this time. "Don't make idle promises," she chided him gently and carefully withdrew her hand. "I was wrong to ask you such a thing when I am already bound in marriage to another." She moved a few paces away from him. "My husband, Husam, is a good man. Later, today or tomorrow, he will ride into battle beside you and face the same perils you face. If you love me --" she looked deeply into his eyes "-- you will make me another promise."

"Anything, my love."

"Promise me that you will look out for him."

Ahmad laughed bitterly. "Lady, that is a difficult promise."

Qirfah nodded. "It is through no sin of his that I cannot love him. He has always treated me well and been a good father to my children. I cannot wish him ill. And this is the only promise I can ask of you with honor. Will you promise me?"

"I swear by the blade of the sword of my forefathers, I will do what I can."

"I ask nothing less." She walked back to him and laid her palm against the side of his face. "And, no promises," she whispered, leaning up to place her lips against his ear. "But I will wait for you. As long as there is a breath of life in me."

_____________________________________________

Pio's post

Later that same day, the two warriors from the Painted Sands joined two hunters from the Baobab tribe. Mounted on fleet steeds from the Painted Sands, the hunters tracked the movement of the youngsters since the murders of last night.

Their faces were grim, seeing the blood that had been spilled on the sandy soil in one area where the youngsters had been. The four men had been instructed only to find where Jasara's group had gone, not to engage them, but hands tightened on their weapons and dark eyes flashed with barely suppressed anger, as they sought the clues that would lead them to the lair . . .

[ July 21, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[ July 30, 2003: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Aylwen's post

The time that went by tormented Jasara. It was the silence and the serenity that had overcome the grasslands that aggravated her and made her feel like something was happening that she did not know about. However, the worst of all this was what the young did while they waited. Every waking moment was spent either with Najah and Nasir practicing with weapons or out hunting for food. Neither task was perticularly difficult, but each seemed to be merely something to fill in the time while they waited for something to happen.

For nothing had happened since the leaders had tied the dead to the trees.

They had waited for days and days, for there was a simple feeling that told them that they had either done something so incredibly horrendous or so incredibly unimportant that the elders were struck into immobility. They were not certain which they preferred. Or there was the feeling Jasara had; that the elders had already begun their planning and that the young would have no way to know of it.

Time was taunting them.

~*~

Rijal had luckily escaped with his life. The only thing that had saved him from hanging upon the children's tree was Nasir. Nasir had convinced Uri and Najah (for they were the ones who truly objected exceptions) that Rijal was necessary for reconnaissance and spying. Which was what the little boy had been doing ever since the murdering.

He had not wanted to go back. He was afraid of Jasara. It was scary to know that he would have been dead were it not for Nasir and his crafty words and dislike for rashness. At the same time, however, Rijal hardly thought it mattered whether or not he died. The killings were a rude awakening for him. He did not matter to the young. He was useless save for his size and good eyes. He did not matter to the Baobab anymore either...he was dead to them.

But he did chance to see something useful as he was out wandering during the desert. What looked to be two scouts and two heavily armed and boisterous warriors. The two scouts Rijal recognized; he had often spoken to them and learned things of tracking from them when he was still alive to the Baobab tribe.

Despite his horrid feelings towards Jasara, Rijal felt the distinct need to tell her about his findings. So he sprinted away from his hiding place in the bushes near the trackers and warriors. He was going back to Jasara. Back to where he was wanted by one and needed by no one.

~*~

You have seperated yourselves from the elders, and still they feel the need to look after you.

Jasara could not stand it any longer. She was on the end of her rope, and it was fraying quickly. The voice filled her with rage for the elders, but the elders scared her deep inside. Deep inside, she knew she had gone way too far by killing her own tribemates. Kin slaying was something Jasara did not want to have to pay the price for in the end, but it was too late. And Jasara could not blame the voice, because she had every chance in the beginning to deny it. It was all her fault.

The worst part was that it was too late to say no to the voice.

Give yourselves to the servants of the Eye. They come now. They will offer you protection. Allign yourselves with them! The voice said, chilling Jasara to the very bones. It haunted her, and Jasara had no idea why. Jasara blinked her eyes several times after this inner question, but for several minutes she could not clear the vision of a red, flaming, lidless eye blanketed on a banner that was so dark it went beyond black and crossed into utter nothingness.

"Najah," Jasara called weakly but loudly. The girl came jogging over, sweat on her brow and bow in her hand. "Go out with three or four of your best bowmen and see if you can catch some of the trackers out there. Take Rijal with you. Do not get too close unless you feel you can take on two fully trained Painted Sand warriors without any losses."

Najah nodded and left Jasara, calling out orders in an unmistakeably wicked voice. Why hadn't the eye chosen Najah? She was evil! But Jasara had been chosen. Jasara rose from her spot by the stream with a new resolve that because she had been chosen, she was destined to success against the elders. Why else would the eye have possessed her?

"Khasia!" Jasara screamed, with new vigour that was not present when she had called for Najah. Her sister ran up, out of breath with a spear in her left hand. "Go tell Uri that there is an army of the Eye coming near here. When it is close enough we will meet up with them. We will crush the elders."

Khasia nodded, but at the same time she was rolling her eyes and sneering at Jasara and her ability to see the future or see visions. Khasia ran off to find Uri, while Jasara left herself alone to be tormented by the eye and the horrid voice.

The Eye will always protect you, Jasara...

___________________________________________
Sophia's post

Khasia heard Jasara’s cry from across the camp. Pushing her sweat-soaked braids out of her face she wrenched her spear from the target it had recently lodged in. She crossed the camp quickly, finding her sister with a look of near panic on her face. “Jasara?”

“Go tell Uri that there is an army of the Eye coming near here. When it is close enough we will meet up with them. We will crush the elders." Jasara’s words were hurried, and Khasia couldn’t readily identify her expression. Her tone though was confident, and obediently Khasia ran across the camp to where the Painted Sand youth had set up their sleeping spots.

Several minutes later, she and Uri left the Painted Sand area, Khasia set out around the edge of the camp, her bare feet sending clouds of dust billowing behind her. She could see Uri running the other direction, toward where Nasir’s group were practicing with the longsword. As she ran, Khasia barked orders to the children she passed. “Go to Jasara! Pack your things and gather at the stream! Go! Now!”

A group of the young formed around the place where Jasara stood. As Khasia reached the place where her own things were, she dropped to her knees and began stuffing things haphazardly into her large carrying basket. Jasara’s words were beginning to reach her, she was beginning to think about their implications. The army of the Eye. She shuddered, thinking about Jasara’s face, Jasara’s confidence, confidence she didn’t always share. But this army… Khasia tightened her lips. There might be opportunity there, for the ambitious. Ambition was one thing Khasia had in quantity. Slinging the basket over her shoulder, Khasia made her way over to the stream where Jasara was beginning to speak.

“For too long the old have held us captive. For too long we have lived in fear of them and their revenge. We need fear them no longer!” The confidence in Jasara’s voice was unmistakable, but the crowd of children stirred uncertainly. “An army draws near.” She called, over the voices of the muttering youth. “An army that will side with us, an army that will protect us! We will go to them as soon as Najah has returned. Gather your things, we will move soon!”

The group dissolved, nearly silently. The murmurings of the children followed them across the grounds. None of them entirely trusted whatever voice led Jasara, but all were confident of her leadership skills. Khasia surveyed the camp, watched the young pack the remainder of their things, kick sand over the fires. “What is in this for us, Jasara? Why are we giving ourselves over to them?” Khasia spoke under her breath so those that followered wouldn’t hear her doubt. Jasara’s face grew still, as though she listened.

“Great glory, sister.” She answered, the glint in her eye brightening. Khasia smiled.

The running form of Rijal jerked Khasia out of her musings on power. “Najah is coming!” he cried. “They are here!” Jasara and Khasia exchanged glances, and Khasia moved out around the camp, whispering to the leaders, nudging along the slow. Shortly all traces of a camp had vanished, only a trail of footprints in the dust pointed to where the young had gone.

[ July 22, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[ July 30, 2003: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]

[Helkahothion]

Thorgom looked at Sammael and Zasfal tied up on the cart. They were still sleeping since they were not hungry. Not yet. Thorgom went to gather up his equipment and broke of his camp. As he had the tent, chair and bed wrapped up again in a tight package and hanging from his left side, he went over to the caravan that was already leaving. Ghurdan was counting heads to see if anyone was there and smiled as Thorgom walked towards him.

"Ah Thorgom, you have made our party complete. If you would camp a bit closer, you might be on time for a change. But then again, people could hear out on your little councils."

"Hush up sandworm. Maybe Sammael could have seen this coming, but the young Zasfal had nothing to do with this. He was just a spectator."

"Yes, but he did not intervene." Ghurdan said coldly.

"Neither did the rest of the camp. I don't see them tied up on that cart now do I?" Thorgom replied as he climbed the cart with the two men.

"Thorgom! What in the name of the great eye are you doing? Get of that cart!"

"I am not allowed to feed them, none of the rules forbid me to sit here and keep them company sandworm! If you don't like it, why don't you come and get me?!"

With that, Thorgom took out his throwing axe and waved it around menacingly. Ghurdan did not reply, his nickname was already bad enough as it was. Some of the man snickered at Ghurdan, but a foul look from his face were enough to keep the silent. Thorgom sad on the cart, waving his legs back and forward like a little child sitting on a chair. He took a mouthful of water and wiped of the sweat.

They were progressing slow, but steady and the sun was burning on their heads. Sammael was strong enough to keep this up till the day, but Zasfal was having a lot of difficulty. He was muttering in himself and looked hopefully if someone was going to give him some water. Thorgom took another swig of water. His gaze wandered about and met the looks of the young Zasfal. He stood up in the cart and walked over.

"No one is watching, quick." He said.

"More people are watching than you think. Just insult me while I am drinking and keep your mouth open. That's all if you want some second hand water."

Thorgom sat a while opposite Zasfal with a grin on his face. He slowly took his sack with water and placed it on his lips. Slowly teasing he placed the sack on his lips and poured water in his mouth. Zasfal saw his opportunity.

"You really are a slimy rat Thorgom!" He shouted.

Immediately Thorgom sprayed all the water from his mouth into Zasfal's mouth. Thorgom had a big mouth so Zasfal got more than a mouthful. The boy swallowed quickly as Thorgom was insulting him right back. With a little wink of course. The man looked at the two, as Thorgom kicked Zasfal. They all laughed in a howling roar. Zasfal smiled to, it was worth this. His face was wet and he had gotten some water. Even though the kick was not necessary. Thorgom walked to the back and let his legs hanging again. Ghurdan was looking at his face for a while and Thorgom stared right back.

"Something wrong sandworm?" Thorgom asked with a happy tone in his voice.

Ghurdan growled in himself and walked on while Thorgom was taking another swig of water.

[ July 21, 2003: Message edited by: Helkahothion ]

[ July 22, 2003: Message edited by: Helkahothion ]

[piosenniel]

Jamílah, Qirfah, Qamar- the day after the meeting of the tribes

‘Come, Mother,’ called Qamar, as she opened the flaps of two large, woven panniers. ‘I have the children’s and my bags packed. The tent is taken down and rolled, and Qirfah is almost done, too.’ She began to take Jamílah’s clothes from the woven chest at the foot of her mat and stuff them in the satchels for the horse. ‘I’ll help you pack, just roll up your mat and get down what other things you want to ta . . .’

Her words were cut off by three short words. ‘I’m not leaving.’

Qamar’s hand stopped, a shawl of her mother’s clasped in her hand, and looked up at her as if she had just spoken in another language. Qirfah, just entering the tent, stood still, holding her breath at her mother’s words. ‘What do you mean, you’re not leaving?’ Her words strung out across the silence in the tent.

‘Come, sit down,’ said Jamílah gently, going to Qirfah, and bringing her to where Qamar crouched, the shawl now lying in a heap on the floor beside her.

Qirfah sat close to her sister, taking her hand in hers. Jamílah crossed the tent to take down two old baskets from the shelves there, and returned to sit opposite her grave faced daughters. She pushed the familiar baskets toward them. They knew what was in the gifts she gave them: her herbs and medicines, the worn pieces of bone she cast to see what the day held in store; the knotted cords that told the orders of the rituals, all those old familiar things they had fingered in play as children and now would take up in solemn duty for the well-being of the clan and tribe.

And they drew back, not wanting to touch them, hoping that in their refusal it would make her relent. But she simply leaned forward, pushing the worn containers until their tattered sides touched her daughters' knees.

‘Daughter, these are yours now. I give them to you freely, knowing I have taught you all I can.’ The opening words to the ritual of passage fell between the women. Qamar stifled a gasp as she heard them and clasped Qirfah’s hand tighter. Do not go on! she thought to herself. I cannot bear it.

It was Qirfah, leaning across the space between them to touch the older woman’s cheek with tenderness, who understood her mother’s need to complete the circle with them as her mother had done with her. She patted Qamar’s hand, placing both of their hands on the gifts. ‘Mother, we accept,’ she said in a clear, quiet voice, ‘and in turn, will hand these down to our daughters.’ Jamílah placed her hands over her daughters’. ‘So it is done.’

Tears that had threatened at the edges of Qamar’s lashes now spilled down her cheeks, and she fell sobbing into her sister’s arms. Qirfah held her close, her chin resting on the top of Qamar’s head, her own tears wetting the dark curls that lay against her.

[ July 22, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Jamílah and Briellah

Jamílah had left them sitting there in the muted light that filtered through the tent’s thin walls. There were things to be done before they faced the youngsters. Rituals to be observed to make the hunt favorable, to protect them from the darkness flowing from the west that seemed to swallow up all in its path. She caught herself, for one moment, desire flaring in her to see her daughter’s children grown, to step back into the comfort of her life. She shook her head at this fleeting temptation. Her daughters would soon be leaving, to the safety of the lands from which she’d come. They would carry her on in their hearts as she had carried her mother. The tribe and clan would be safe and prosper. Her footsteps now moved in another direction.

Her last stop for the day was to see Briellah. Her tent had been taken down, and all was packed away, except a small, oil stove which held the kettle for hot water. ‘Come, my friend, have one last cup with me, before we must leave.’ Briellah rolled out a nearby mat on the ground and the two sat down content to be in the quiet of each other’s company, as they sipped their coffee.

It was Briellah who broke the silence, giving her friend the chance to voice her request. ‘What is it you wish of me, Jamílah. Ask, and it is yours.’

‘I will stay here with the other Elders to join in the hunt.’ Briellah nodded her head at this. ‘The old ways must stand against this darkness that comes against us.’ She put her hand on Briellah’s arm. ‘I will not return to the east to be with my family. I have seen the signs for this growing daily in the bones I cast.’ Briellah’s face grew grave, expecting these words, but not wanting to fully accept them. Still she made no comment to deny the truth of Jamílah’s statement.

‘Watch after my daughters and their children, Briellah. Lend them your strength and your wisdom when they need it. Will you do that for me?’

Briellah took Jamílah’s hand and laid it against her cheek. ‘You know if I thought it possible I would talk you out of this. Look at us! We are growing old. We should not have to think of these dark things. Our thoughts should be turned to our children’s children. And how we will sit, toothless old crones, our bones creaking on the mat, as we cackle over ripe gossip and suck on the sweets our grandsons will bribe us with to tell them the old stories of their fathers.’ Her voice broke, and she turned away for a moment, wiping her eyes on the hem of her scarf. She kissed Jamílah’s palm and placed it against her heart. ‘They will be my daughters. My tent will be their tent. I will stand in your stead.’

They sat for a while, finishing their drink in silence. Then Jamílah rose as did Briellah, and embraced her friend a last time. ‘Thank you,’ she said simply, her voice fading as she walked away.

[ July 21, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Ealasaid's post

BRIELLAH and AHMAD

Briellah watched as Jamilah walked away, fighting against the feeling in her heart that she would never see her old friend again. As Jamilah disappeared into the bustle of the breaking camp, Briellah turned her attention back to matters at hand. The stove would have to be packed. Shushila and poor Chani were both veiled and ready to travel. All that was left were the final goodbyes. She had already spoken with her husband, Ishak. He had gone now to the tent, which would henceforth serve as both his lodging and his headquarters. Only her son was left.

Ahmad had worked hard through the majority of the afternoon to pack up Briellah’s belongings and those of his sisters. When Jamilah had arrived for their final talk, she had sent him away on a errand to his aunt in the Grass clan, but now she could see his tall figure returning. Watching him approach, she fingered the vial in her pocket. Jamilah had given it to her some days earlier, before her daughter had been maimed, before the little children of both tribes had been eviscerated and hung like slaughtered game from that tree. She would give it to him, she decided, as she walked forward to meet him. Perhaps she could not save him, but she would help him as much as she could.

Thinking back, she remembered how Ahmad had always been a joy, a good boy, even as a baby, the pride of her life. As a young boy, he had been a mischievous lad, bright and diffident. Now, watching him make his way through the camp, she saw the man he had become. He was strong-featured like his father, but taller, with the same air of leadership. All his life, he had been groomed to succeed his father as the head man of the Painted Sand tribe, but it had been at a cost. His father treated him more as a captain of the guard than as a son. And Ahmad responded in kind, taking orders and carrying out his duties emotionlessly, but the streak of rebellion remained. She saw that in his refusal to take a bride, his stubborn insistence on taking his turn watching after the tribal horses, and in riding side by side with his cousins into battle, rather than leading the women and children into flight.

Reaching him, Briellah embraced him and, drawing his face down to hers, kissed each of his bearded cheeks. “Come,” she said, gesturing to the two mats she had earlier laid out for herself and Jamilah. “Sit with me awhile. We should talk before I go.”

Ahmad smiled and kissed the top of her head. “I would love to, mother, but time grows short. You should be going. Are Chani and Shushu ready?”

She nodded. “Yes, I sent them on with Tamira. They wait for me with the others.”

He looked around at the stove and the mats still open on the ground. “These things should have been packed hours ago.” He walked over and began to roll up the mats. Briellah watched him with tears rising in her eyes.

“Leave the stove,” she said abruptly. When he looked over at her in surprise, she nodded. “Leave it. You or your father may need it.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but she shushed him with a gesture. “Besides,” she finished softly. “It’s still too hot to bother with. I have another stove. Now, if you can’t sit with me, at least walk with me a ways. I am still your mother.”

Tucking the two mats under his arm, Ahmad retrieved his mother’s horse from its tether a short distance away and helped her into the saddle. Once she was settled, he lashed the two mats to the back of the saddle. Briellah caught his hand and pushed the vial she had gotten from Jamilah into his palm. Closing his fingers around it, she said, “This was a gift from Jamilah. She told me to use it cautiously. I choose instead to pass it on to you. It is a poison from the tree toad of the south. Do not let it touch your skin, but dip your blades lightly in it. It will paralyze and stop the heart of your foe.”

Ahmad opened his hand and looked at the clay bottle with its cork stopper. When he looked back at his mother, she smiled. “I can no longer protect you as I did when you were a child. I cannot stop you from fighting at the side of your father if that is what you wish to do. But I can give you what aid I have at my disposal. Use it well.”

She laid her hand by the side of his face. “You are a good son. I will be waiting by the shore of the inland sea.” With that, she chucked to the horse and rode away, feeling as though her heart had been torn.

[ July 23, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

The women and children and their necessary possessions were packed and stowed on the horses. It was night now, and many men from both tribes were saying farewell to their families. The sounds of sadness filled the air, as the women and children mounted up, surrounded by a band of armed warriors. There were last minute embraces, and tears shed, and promises made that each hoped would be fulfilled.

Husam kissed Qirfah’s cheek as he helped her to the saddle; then hugged his children and kissed the tops of their heads as he handed them up to her. Their little hands reached down for him, and he kissed their fingertips, telling them of the new sights they would see with their mother. When he looked up, he could see Qirfah’s gaze go to one who stood at the far edge of the crowd. She turned back to Husam, her eyes filled with such sadness that his heart broke at the sight of it. ‘Take care of the precious little ones,’ he told her as he kissed her finger tips and faded into the throng.

Then they were off, moving swiftly eastward into the starred darkness of the desert night.

[ July 21, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Jamílah and Husam

‘Come, little Mother,’ said Husam, putting his arm about her shoulders. Nasr and I are going to the meeting in Ishak’s tent. The young ones’ camp has been found and we must make a plan to set upon them.’ Jamílah leaned against him, feeling suddenly old. ‘I promised Qirfah I would look after you.’ She started to protest, but he went on. ‘As did Nasr promise Qamar.’ He laughed grimly. ‘No use to fight us. There will be foes aplenty to spend your strength on.’

The meeting was short. Their camp had been found, but the youngsters were on the move, it seemed - west. They would have to ride quickly if they were to engage them before they met the army of the Eye.

[Lyra Greenleaf]

Essenia

Essenia did not know she was no longer alone in her tent until a voice spoke to her. Wheeling around, her heart beating fast, she saw Rahvin.
"I have instructions from Sevora" he repeated again, calmly.
Essenia nodded, watching his face and willing herself to calmness. Here was a man who made her feel emotional in comparison- and that would not be true of many people.

"Sammael and Zasfal are to be punished for the incident in the night"
Essenia nodded again, impatient. That had nothing to do with her, surely?

"They are attatched to the cart. You will take care of them. They are not to eat, but water will be necessary a few times during the day. Sevora wants no more deaths. You will walk with them, assure they live, and make sure they know that the minimum is all they will get. All wrongs will be punished in time."

With that, he turned and left the tent. essenia had to bite her lip to stop herself yelling in frustration. This was punishment to her, of course. That last sentence was meant for her ears- Sevora finally had her chance to take revenge for the fiasco in the village. And hadn't she found the perfect way? Beatings would mean little to Essenia, just as everything else that happened to her body seemed disconnected from her true being. This- a punishment for her head- was the ideal. She felt a grudging respect for the priestess.

***************************

Sammael

Sammael groaned. This would truly be a day of punishment. Walking behind the cart was all very well- unpleasant but bearable- having to do it next to Zasfal was little short of torture. He had already started to complain, protesting his innocence and blaming Sammael for his ills. Sammael grinned at him in a parody of good humour.
"There was a simple solution, Zasfal. Had you remained instead of running with your tail between your legs, I would have killed you too and you would have had no punishment. You would be the late-" he paused consideringly "perhaps lamented- you have a mother, do you not?- Zasfal, and your spirit would have had the satisfaction of seeing me doubly punished."
Thankfully a combination of outrage, fury and hatred shut Zasfal up. Sammael was just about to breathe a sigh of relief, when the refrain began again. Sammael decided to try and ignore it.

Gnashing his teeth he turned to Damodred who was standing with Sammael's weapons to his other side. He smiled thinly at him, and the tribesman with him.
"No need to say anything- "I told you so" would not be suitable since you didn't."
Damodred grinned back.
"I'll leave you with your friend, shall I?" he asked, nodding at Zasfal.
He's enjoying this! Sammael thought with a groan. Probably thinks it's exactly what I need to knock some sense into me.
"Yes, you go," he answered with mock resignation. "There's no reason for us both to suffer."

Damodred began to answer, but was interrupted by the call to move out. He merely patted Sammael on the back and left. The cart began to move with a jerk, and Sammael felt his shoulder joints click as he was pulled along. It was hard to stay on his feet. Zasfal tripped and cursed as he was pulled up again. Sighing, Sammael resigned himself to a very long day.

Sammael was startled to see Essenia come up to walk alongside him, a metre or so distant, but clearly meaning to remain there. He stared, and she must have felt something since she turned to glare at him. Sammael looked forward again, worried of falling over his feet.
No doubt she wants to see me punished, he thought grimly, and determined not to give her the pleasure.

"I knew it was just a matter of time" he said with a wink.
She regarded him blankly.
"My charm never fails" he continued. "Although I have to admit you had me doubting. Well, I'm a little tied up at the moment as you can see- but I should have the use of my hands back tonight."
Still she kept silent.

Determined to crack her, if only to find out what she was doing, Sammael kept up his patter for the next few minutes.
"Believe me, it wasn't my idea!" she finally snapped, eyes flashing.
So there is a little passion in there! Sammael thought exultantly.
"So why are you honouring me with your presence?" he asked curiously.
"Orders" she answered, again a block of ice under the desert sun. "I have to give you water when it looks like you're dying"

"How thoughtful" Sammael answered sarcastically.
So she's being punished too he thought with interest. Perhaps this day will have it's distractions after all...

[Ealasaid]

The crowd in Ishak’s tent had swollen to such a number that many of the warriors and hunters of both tribes who had elected to stay spilled outside into the darkness. Adhem and the other three members of the scouting party had arrived back with news of the movement of the young ones’ camp toward the west. The meeting was brief. The warriors of the combined tribes were to ride through the night and attack at dawn. The ghost children were to be destroyed before they ever reached the priestess or her army.

As the warriors rode westward into the moonlit night, Ahmad found himself in a group that included his cousins, Adhem and Yusef. Adhem rode easily, his reins in one hand, his other hand resting casually on his thigh or the hilt of his sword. Yusef, on the other hand, had pulled the tail of his head shawl up to conceal the lower portion of his face, even though it was a windless night, and rode with a studied determination, his eyes fixed on the western horizon. Ahmad attempted to speak to him a few times, but finally gave up and let his horse fall a few paces behind Yusef’s. He stood up his stirrups. Looking back, he could just make out the shapes of Husam, Nasr, and Jamilah some distance behind. Remembering his promise to Qirfah, he was determined to keep them in his sight.

The riders arrived at the old campsite, the one where they had found Chani, well before dawn. It had been deserted long before. They wasted little time there and were quickly underway again, riding due west.

Adhem’s horse fell into pace beside Ahmad’s. “Their new camp was barely a half day’s march from here,” he told Ahmad. “On horseback, it will be but an hour or so.” But, when the riders came to the place where the scouts had sighted the young ones earlier in the day, they found the site deserted. As the first rosy fingers of light caressed the eastern sky, the riders came to a stop. Nothing remained of the camp but swaying grasses and a few cold fire circles. Ahmad watched as the trackers from both tribes dismounted to study the ground. He edged his horse closer to Adhem’s.

“They must have seen us,” Adhem muttered. “How? We were sure we passed unseen.”

Ahmad shook his head, remembering the way Jasara had looked so distant, then spoken with such authority. She heard the voice of The Eye, just as Fouad had. Who knows what the Eye had told her. Frowning, he nodded to the west. “We know they’ve gone west. Why are we wasting time here?”

Adhem shrugged, but he, too, looked into the western darkness.

[Nerindel]

Zasfal still walked bound to the back of the cart he stumbled many times and complained constantly, more because it annoyed Sammael than anything else. He had expected this, no that's not true he had expected much worse, infact when Rahvin had entered his tent he had his weapons drawn in readiness, but the surprise at seeing Rahvin and not Ghurdan had caused him to lower his guard and Rahvin easily over powered him.

Zasfal watched his captains back as he walk ahead of them, his eyes narrowed as he squinted against the bright light of the sun reflecting of the desert floor, it looked to most that Zasfal drew malicious looks towards his captain, but infact Zasfal was puzzling over Ghurdans apparent leniency. Most who had wronged Ghurdan were not around to tell of it, yet both he and Sammael were to live, he could only assume that Ghurdan had been ordered not to kill them.

As he turned back to facing the back of the cart he saw Thorgom watching him, Zasfal regarded him with a questioning eye, he was thankful to the large warrior for the spray of water that had relieved his thirst earlier, second hand though it was. Though they were supposed to be receiving water, the warrior woman, Essenia seemed content to keep them waiting for it.

"So Thorgom are all the warriors of the tribes a like to you, or are you unique to your people ? He croaked, there was nothing but genuine interest in his voice. As they drew nearer their destination, Zasfal wondered what sort of resistance they would face and who better to ask than one who may have been there! he thought to himself.

As he asked Thorgom the question he saw that other were also was interested to hear what the tribes man had to say, both Sammael and Essenia turned to listen.

[ July 23, 2003: Message edited by: Nerindel ]

[Arien]

Dristi walked just behind Sevora again, the previous night had been an embarrassment and she had kept her sarcastic speech subdued thus far since her punishment. Her neck was still raw, the mark as Sevora had said a memory, a memory of her insolence. Dristi hated it, she had looked at herself the night before, her looks no longer perfect, she hated it, she hated Sevora. That smug smile that the woman now wore was almost unbearable as being hung, she walked with an air of conceit around her knowing what pain she had caused Dristi.

Her head hung, her hood covering her blackened hair, her feet delicately stepped along the ground. She could not take this anymore, she had lost count of how many days they had been travelling. It did not seem too long, but she could not remember. Why she ever said she would come on this escapade was beyond her, it would have benefited herself more to stay at the Citadel and fight and teach. She did none of that now, she had not killed for a few days and every time Sevora annoyed her she felt her hands reaching for her concealed knives. But she held herself back, self control is almost as powerful as attacking, but not quite. Sevora might just tip her over the edge and Dristi relished the idea.

Dristi’s eyes wondered far ahead, the sun blinded them with her light so they fell towards the floor again. And she kept walking her eyes now transfixed on the swaying of Naramarth’s robes. She sighed, if she did not fight or kill soon she would go mad. Her head hurt so much, it pounded and her neck still ached and the beating heat of the sun did not help matters.

“Sevora…” she whispered, her mouth drier than she thought.

“Yes?” she kept walking straight ahead but was intently listening to Dristi.

“How far?”

“Why are you getting tired, is your neck aching?” she said, laughter in her voice.

“No,” scowled Dristi, “ I hunger to kill, and if I don’t soon….”

“Calm down,” she sighed, still walking. She was now level with Dristi. “not long, don’t worry you are not the only one.” Dristi wondered at what Sevora had meant, she knew very well she was not the only one.

“Sevora…”

“Yes Dristi I am listening…” she said exasperatedly.

Dristi’s eyes narrowed with anger, though Sevora could not see them in the shroud of her hood, “ If we are to get these converts, we can not seem as though we are fighting. It seems weak, and it is not just us,” she motioned behind them.

“So you are smarter than you look?” Sevora smiled, “ of course I knew this, we will appear friend to the converts when we meet them. And only when we meet them. No other time.”

Dristi had clutched her knife tight under her robes. She was not the only arrogant one here now. How date she think that she wanted to be…be her friend! To full of herself…she would pay.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

The children and young moved quickly. They never stayed in one encampment for more than a few hours to half a day. Jasara knew what was following them and how close they were. She dared not tell anyone but the other leaders how frighteningly near the elders of the Painted Sand and Baobab tribes were coming. The elders came too close for comfort on several occasions. It was then that Jasara let Najah take over and get the young really moving at almost a jog.

Jasara began to fear her own ideas and doubt her judgment. She was no longerin control of her mind. But Jasara had come too far to back down, and for some unknown reason she still wanted to prove to whatever was inside of her that she could handle it all. She wanted to prove it to the elders, too. More than anything Jasara wanted to change what the elders thought, and show them that they underestimate their young.

The Eye's perfect plan was unfolding through Jasara, and it was visible and audible in every move and every run the young made to narrowly avoid the elders. The young were in far too much of a hurry to cover up their tracks well, but that would become necessary at some point. But that point had not come yet. Jasara was told and knew exactly when, where, and what to do by whatever haunted her.

Relax, Jasara. Run with ease, be carefree. Your time of ultimate power will come. Your proof will be shown to the elders in their last breaths as they die before you and the Eye that has chosen you...Jasara heard the hissed words, though she learned long ago that listening was wrong. The words were always ringing in her ears and lindered in her mind.

"Uri!" Jasara shouted above the din of the young packing up from another temporary camp. It was time to cover their tracks. The voice had shown Jasara how in a vision, and all would be well. It was false hope that Jasara had lost faith in long before, but it had to do for the time being.

Uri jogged against the wave of children moving west. Khasia was leading them now, hollering out orders that echoed the ones Jasara or Najah had originally given her. Uri was stained with dust and sand, his dark hair was sweat-soaked and plastered to his forward in every direction as he reached Jasara.

"We need to pause for a moment. We need to get the elders off our tracks. What we do is split up for only about a half mile. Khasia, Najah, and Nasir will take one group and take a more north-westerly route. You and I will take a more north or north-easterly route. Only for about a half mile. Then we'll take reeds or something to cover the tracks once we establish to the elders that the group has split," Jasara explained, finding the most complicated and yet simple way to tell Uri her vision. Uri blinked at Jasara, then nodded slowly.

"So, in a nutshell: We pretend to split up, giving the elders a choice to make and two fake trails. Then we meet back up at about a half mile west?" Uri simplified perfectly, sending Jasara into momentary self-pity and wonderment at why Uri had not been chosen by the Eye. Jasara nodded her reply and Uri immediately went off to tell Khasia, Najah, and Nasir.

The plan was under way quickly, for by then the young knew that this was no time to waste precious moments and seconds. Teenagers or young adults were appointed to cover the tracks as the groups made their fake trails. It had gone perfectly. Again. The Eye had never failed Jasara.

The groups met up as planned a half mile down and across their false pathways. Jasara felt relief course through her as she realized that they had bought precious time that would be of good use. Soon they would find the army; Jasara knew it.

"Khasia, when we find the army, I must speak with the priestess alone," Jasara whispered to her sister at one point down the short grasslands. The Eye had told Jasara who she would be meeting, it was all planned and ready. All Jasara had to do was prepare her people for it.

"No Jasara!" Khasia snapped angrily, causing her sister to lift a brow. What had come over her sister? "I will go with you! I've come too far now to be left behind just because of whatever voice you think is inside your head!"

Jasara frowned. Why was she even having this conversation with her sister? Khasia had no right to insult what had brought them this far in the first place. Nothing of the split would have occured if the Eye had never manifested itself in Jasara.

"I have not killed children and broken ties with my family for nothing. I would never have done any of this if I had not been truly called to do so. Speak unwisely against the Eye once more, if even in your sleep, and your fate will be that of the children hanging from the tree, sister or not." Jasara replied shortly.

She is power hungry. Nothing more. Let her go along with you and show her that she is not worthy or ready for being a decision maker...

Khasia was looking darkly at Jasara, about to protest. Jasara hesitated for only a split second, then thought better of it. Had not the Eye shown her the right way since it had first spoken to her?

"But very well. You may come along. Only you and me. We will talk to the priestess when we reach the Army. It will be soon, Khasia," Jasara added hurriedly, but then continued forward to lead the children.

[ July 26, 2003: Message edited by: Aylwen Dreamsong ]

[Helkahothion]

"So Thorgom are all the warriors of the tribes a like to you, or are you unique to your people?"

Thorgom sat on the back of the cart and raised an eyebrow. He looked at the younger man. He had obviously not been paying attention.

"They'd wish. I don't belong to those pathetic people. They argue over goats and tents and get mad if there neighbour has his home a few inches to their own. I left them a very, very long time ago. The warriors are proud people and I hope most of them will not convert. It will prove a nice adventure for us."

Zasfal stared at him, obviously confused. Thorgom did not care. Everywhere he went, he was pointed to the exit. People would stare at him or point at him, but never would they come up and talk to him. Except if they wanted him to do some dirty work. Thorgom was an exile of the world. This question had been the best thing he had in days, even tough he did not knew the intention behind it. But it was not mocking since the question seemed to satisfy Zasfal. The priestess' were stupid not to ask Thorgom about the camp.

Those cocky women think that they knew everything just because they are in favour with that eye of them. Thorgom thought. No pathetic dagger will take down one of the Haradrim. Only the bigger blade will have an effect. But they will find out their mistake once it is too late.

Thorgom looked to the side of Essenia and she looked back at him, just like all other people, with a mocking smile. Thorgom looked at her and started tapping his throwing axe against his shoe. She seemed to be annoyed by the fact that she was stuck with Zasfal and Sammael. It could have been worse; she could have been walking with that Ghurdan. And that would have been the biggest punishment of all. Thorgom jumped of the back of the cart and gave both Sammael and Zasfal a pat on the head.

"Don't loose it, the end of the day is near." He said while turning around and walking to the priestesses.

They had their hoods over their heads again, being their mysterious selves once more. Thorgom walked to Sevora and tapped her on the shoulder. The woman gave him a death glare and then looked back. Ignoring him. Oh how Thorgom wanted to smash her head to bits. He restrained himself and tapped her on the shoulder once more. Dristi squeezed her daggers to the fullest of the capacity, hoping that Sevora would give the order to kill Thorgom.

"What do you want now?" Sevora asked as if she was talking to a bug that kept flying on her shoulder.

"Well, seeing that we want to gather enough men for our cause, it would be wise to look as friends when we enter. And a band of armed men and two people bound behind a cart dying of hunger doesn't really look friendly now does it. I suggest that you think this over or consult someone that has a bit more experience with the people you are about to face. For that important priestess thing is not going to have as much effect against a village with armed forces."

Thorgom finished and did not give Sevora the chance for a sneering reply and was not in the mood to get laughed at either. So instead he immediately made a left turn and went back to the back of the cart were Essenia was now giving water to a dried out Zasfal. Thorgom shook his head over the fate of Zasfal.

"And she call's herself a priestess. All she has done is murder and hurt." Thorgom said loudly so that anyone who was interested in his words could hear it. He doubted anyone was.

[ July 25, 2003: Message edited by: Helkahothion ]

[Lyra Greenleaf]

Sammael arched his back, trying to work out the kinks that being tied up for hours had created. Looking down at his arms, bare nearly to the elbows where his tunic had slipped back, he saw the unmistakable signs of sunburn beginning to show red. He groaned, remembering the only other time he got burned- the first time he had gone to sea with his father. Something to do with the glare of the sea, it had been agony. Desperately he tried to roll his shoulders and make the sleeves fall.

He almost felt Essenia's eyes on him and turned to see her regarding him, and raised an eyebrow quizzically.
"A little help?" he asked, unsure of her reaction.
It seemed she had understood what he wanted, because grudgingly she pushed his sleeves down to his wrists, holding her own arms high to make sure she didn't brush his skin.

Interesting...the ice-woman melts? he wondered.
"I have a terrible crick in my neck..." he said, winking at her.
With a sniff, she shot him a look full of daggers, and slowed her pace slightly so that she was again walking slightly behind him.
"Well, it was worth a try wasn't it?" he asked, turning to Zasfal and shrugging.
Zasfal just stared at him balefully.

"I don't think I'm particularly popular at the moment" Sammael told the back of the cart, the only thing he didn't expect to glare at him. "Even the old man has gone off!"

[Nerindel]

"And she call's herself a priestess. All she has done is murder and hurt."

Ghurdan laughed darkly, fool does he not know that our dark master specialises in death and pain. But he will when the eye deems him unworthy and releases him from his service a cold dark voice echoed in his head. And you Ghurdan shall have the command you desire, Now go to Sevora and Do as she commands.

"Ghurdan" Sevora called sharply, still obviously angered by Thorgoms words. He quickened his pace to join her, "yes, oh loyal one to the eye" he grinned, she raised an Eyebrow as her suspicions about the sea captain grew in her mind, 'So he too is favoured by the Eye' she chuckled to herself wondering what promises their master had offered the sea captain.

"There is a village west of here that is loyal to the eye," Ghurdan nodded he knew of this village "take two others and go, recruit soldiers for our dark lords army," she ordered. As he turned to leave she whispered so that only he could hear "the tribal warriors already know of our coming!"

Ghurdan nodded knowing the source of her information, He looked at the warriors before him and decided to take Damodred and one of his crew. He respected the older man's self control and wisdom.

*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*

Lyra's Post

“Damodred”
Damodred turned with surprise at the sound of his name. Sammael surely hadn’t been let off his punishment? No, it was the Sea Captain, Ghurdan.
“Damodred, I want you to come with me. I understand you know this area?”
“Yes” Damodred replied uncertainly.
“Very well. I need to find a village which I understand is somewhere around here. We need reinforcements to fight the savages. You can show me the way.”
Oh can I indeed? Damodred thought privately. Would you talk to Sammael like this? Well perhaps you would, he recollected, but I have a feeling you think I'm just a useless old man anyway. Well, we shall see.
"I can show you the way, yes" he answered with little enthusiasm.

Luckily the village was not very far out of their way- only about 3 miles. The rest of the party continued their journey as Ghurdan, Damodred and one of Ghurdan's crew broke off over the sand dunes.

When they reached it they saw a dusty little desert town, slightly bigger than the last. At the sight of strangers, townspeople appeared, standing around egarding them or peeking out of doors and windows. Once they reached the central square, Ghurdan motioned to the crewman, who pulled a large bell from the bag he had slung over his shoulder. He rung it, twice then put it away and stood silent.

Curious townsfolk began to pack the little square, until Damodred estimated there were about 150 of them talking quietly.
"Friends before the Eye" Ghurdan began "I am here to tell you of an important mission. We are going to convert the heathen tribesmen of the South to the great Dark Religion. We call for your help as loyal subjects of the same master. You receive great freedom here, now it is time for you to repay your debt to the great Eye! Volunteers come and report to me."

Damodred looked up at him. That was a clever speech- the hint of a threat was inherent in the mention of their freedom. Yes, no doubt about it, Ghurdan had brains. But then, so did Sammael unlikely though that often seemed. Between the two of them, there was a good chance that this mission would go very well.

[ July 25, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Helkahothion]

"Look further than your crooked nose Master Sammael, for I am right in front of you." Thorgom said amused.

Sammael looked up and saw the man sitting a bit more to the front of the cart. Thorgom now stood up and went to the back. His legs hung down and Thorgom smiled. No one in punish was popular. There wasn't such a thing as popularity in this group. Nobody envied someone, although some soldiers were in awe with the priestess'. Thorgom smiled down at Sammael and Sammael looked back.

"What is it old man?"

"I tolled you so. As a leader you should be an example, what if the men would do exactly what you did, we would surely have a much smaller force now."

"Ohw shut up."

"Just a moment ago you were nagging about the lack of attention. You really should get your priorities straight. If you want me to talk, let me talk, if you don't tough luck, I'll talk anyway."

"Well then, it doesn't seem like I have much of a choice then do I?" Sammael said smiling.

Damodred was called off to lead the way to a village. It was dead obvious that he didn't completely know the way. But it was not very far so even a child could lead them. Thorgom was glad that they did not ask this of him. He was in no hurry to with Ghurdan and one of his stupid henchmen. They were all piece-by-piece empty minded, just following orders without question. That is the worse thing you can do. Thorgom looked around and saw nothing interesting. He went up to Sevora again and tapped her on the shoulder.

"What is it now?" Sevora snapped.

"Patience ohw blessed one, I was just wandering where captain Ghurdan was."

"That is none of your business, now go back in line." Dristi suddenly answered.

"I can answer for myself Dristi. But she is right old man, it is none of your business." Sevora said.

Dristi smiled at Thorgom as he walked passed her. Thorgom growled at her. In a reaction she reached for her dagger but Thorgom was already gone. He walked back to the cart and sat down again. Sammael and Zasfal were beginning to look very bad. The hunger was getting to them and neither of them spoke a word. Thorgom looked at Sammael with a very bad grimace on his face.

"What is it old man?" Sammael asked.

"Those two girls are getting on my nerve. None of my business, where my so-called leader is going is very well my business. I don't hope they are planning on something. We have enough scum as it is."

"Don't let it bother you old man, we need someone to cause annoyance to Sevora and Dristi. We need you." Sammael said with a wrangled smile.

[Nerindel]

Thirty men and boys immediately stepped forward, Ghurdan grinned at Damodred, but Damodred was surprised at their apparent eagerness to follow strangers into battle, even if they spoke for the Eye. Ghurdan walked in between the volunteers weeding out the ones that would be of no use to them, Damodred did like wise, turning away most of the boys who didn't look old enough to carry a sword, never mind wield one in battle.

Most of the men were warriors of the village and had weapons of their own, and the few that didn't were armed from a store that was kept by the village elders. When the final twenty warriors stood before them, Ghurdan ordered them to make ready to leave within the hour. During this hour some of the women from the village brought them food and drink, Ghurdan ate the food but left the ale and drank water instead, he saw an opportunity here; he left Damodred and went among the warriors.

He offer each the promise of a job on the Fire spray after this mission was complete. He told them of the infidels of Gondor and Belfalas, and the threat they posed. He feed them the lies the Great Eye had shared with him, "These people think they can just walk into our lands and take what is ours! But together with the forces of the Great Eye we can take their lands as our own and show them that the Haradrim are not to be taken for granted." For most these words were enough to gain their service, but the others were finally hooked when Ghurdan told them of the riches they took from the Ships of Belfalas and of the six gold pieces he would pay each one that joined his crew. He gave each man who agreed to join his crew three gold pieces and promised them another three when they returned to Umbar, he could see that most of them had not seen one gold piece never mind Three.

Within the hour twenty warriors were gathered and ready to leave, "Move out!" Ghurdan ordered. He and Damodred lead them to were they believed the rest of their company would be camping for the night.

"So you paid them?" Damodred chuckled. "Indeed!" Ghurdan laughed "It is highly possible that not all of us will survive and I still need to crew my ship." Damodred nodded still chuckling under his breath. "There is space for two more should you survive, and your young friend can settle his differences" Ghurdan whispered as he walked past him. Damadred was stunned at Ghurdans offer, but he was almost certain that Sammael would not wish to take up the captains offer, so he did not answer and the pair lead the warriors towards were they estimated their companions would have made camp.

[ August 01, 2003: Message edited by: Nerindel ]

[piosenniel]

The trackers – Husam

Jamílah scanned the rolling grasslands to the west, looking for signs of the returning scouts. The combined tribes had decided, after several days of unsuccessful pursuit of the young ones’ group, to move their main camp further west, to the head of a small valley between the arms of a lengthy outcropping of sandstone through which a small year round stream had cut and eroded the layers of rock. The tents had been set up at the eastern end of the valley, the grasslands and water supply plentiful enough for the horses of the painted sands, and the small, goat herds of the Baobab.

It was late afternoon, of the third day they had sent out their fresh teams of trackers. Scouts would return each evening from the lead group, always with the same story. They had seen recent signs that the young had stopped here or there, but never an actual sighting of the young ones themselves. Like ghosts, they kept vanishing.

The trackers had ranged out further and further west, two new teams of three each day – one team heading northwest, the other southwest. They wove back and forth across each other’s tracks in a serpentine fashion, as they moved westward looking for their prey. This day had brought them within range of an outlying, established settlement, on the outskirts of a small town that had sprawled along one of the east-west trade routes from the western coast.

One of the Baobab, Husam, had gone down to the nearest of the six furthest outlying farms – a goat farmer with whom the tribe had traded whenever their path brought them near. A pouch of silver coins hung round his neck, concealed beneath his shirt, as he walked in through the main gate to the holding, waving his hand to the children who played in the yard near the house.

‘Your father - is he here, little ones?’ he asked smiling. As was the custom, he stopped a distance from the house, in the shade afforded by a small tree and waited for the children to let their parents know a visitor had come. The wife was the one who came out from the house, and looking him over closely, she spoke to her eldest son, sending him running for his father. She sent a jar of cool water to Husam with the younger boy, bidding him wait until her husband would come to speak with him. Husam smiled at the boy as he thanked him for the water, and nodded at the woman, noting her eyes darted constantly to the road behind him, scanning the distance beyond. And noting also the three large herd dogs that stood near the entrance to the house, their watchful gaze following his every movement.

Soon the goat farmer, Bemah, came in from the fields, wiping the sweat from his brow with his pocket rag. He bore a spear in one hand, and his eyes narrowed as he approached, looking closely at Husam. His shoulders seemed to relax as he recognized the man beneath the tree. He gave the spear into the keeping of the son who had come back with him, and wiping his hands on his breeches, he drew nearer, and clasped Husam’s hand.

The pleasantries and rituals of greeting done, Husam ventured to comment on how unusual it was to see the man carry a spear. ‘Has there been trouble?’ he asked, motioning to the young man standing a little way off who still held the spear. ‘Not that has come to my door as yet, friend,’ said Bemah, leading Husam to his house. ‘But others have come back from trading in the town, and there are reports of a body of rough, armed men moving our way.’ Husam nodded his head at these rumors, saying that Latif had come back from the town a little further west than this settlement’s town, and that there he had witnessed a sacrifice done at the behest of the priestess who traveled with the army. ‘We had heard that rumour, too, and thought it was just some tale picked up and grown larger than it really was.’ Bemah shook his head at the confirmation that it was, indeed, true, then listened carefully as Husam told him of the strange flight of many of the young from the tribe toward this army. Husam was careful not to say he was tracking the youngsters, and made no mention of the Painted Sands’ tribe.

Bemah was thoughtful as Husam spoke. If this were true, then the neighboring farmers needed to be made aware of it. He would speak to them as soon as his business with Husam was finished.

Trading was always done at a leisurely pace, and today proved no different, though both men had other pressing matters on their minds. More news was shared. What each had seen and heard since last they met, who was married, who had new babies, who had died. Finally the talk narrowed down to the business at hand. Bemah’s herd had several pregnant nannies, and they had been bred with his neighbor’s two billies who produced rugged, healthy goats, the females of which were excellent milk producers.

‘When will the kids be here do you think?’ asked Husam, knowing that it would be several months after that before they would be ready to join the tribe’s bands. Bemah gave his estimated date, and Husam asked that three females and two males be set aside for him. They discussed the price of the goats, and after a few moments of haggling, came to a mutually acceptable sum. Husam fished for the pouch beneath his shirt and took out half the agreed on price. ‘Nasr and I will come when they are ready and bring them back to our herd. Until then, this should hold them for us.’

The better part of an hour was then spent drinking homemade spirits and toasting the continued health of each other’s family. Husam took leave of Bemah when he could and hurried back to the other two trackers who awaited him. ‘We must get back to the main camp,’ he told them. The priestess and her army are quite near, and none have seen the youngsters in this area. I think it most likely they have already joined their forces with that of the priestess.’

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Later that evening, Bemah took one of his dogs and his eldest son with him to call on their nearest neighbor. He passed on the news that Husam had brought - to this neighboring family, who in turn passed it on the following morning to several others in the vicinity. And so on, until the families in the outlying holdings had all been made aware of what was happening.

[ July 26, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Durelin]

Sevora's patience was growing thin, as was the other's. She could practically feel the tension among them. They yearned so much to kill, while she grew sick of their ignorance and impudence. Even Dristi could not control herself. It was pathetic. Blood would flow when the time came, but not before. Couldn't they see? All had to be planned, and carefully, or their efforts would fail. And failure was not an option. Now she wondered just how careful of planning she had to do. If there truly were a split, as was rumored…perhaps this would all be quite simple. Or, perhaps their arrival would be just the thing to reunite the tribesmen, against the Army of the Eye.

Army? Sevora snorted so loud that a nearby crewman jumped to stand at attention. Sevora ignored him as she walked past, but it took quite a few minutes for the man to stop staring and get back to his position in the line of march. The tribeman is the worst, she thought. He is up to something... Soon Rahvin was striding next to her. "And what have you been up to, my dear?" she asked.

Rahvin chuckled dryly, and Sevora started. The man hadn't done that in years. She said so, and the man almost smiled at her. "Well," he began in a dry tone, "much has been occuring that is, in fact, quite amusing."

It was Sevora's turn to laugh. "The tribesman?"

She was answered with a smile.

"What else did he say, besides his comment concerning myself."

"He is sure that these people will not convert. He also seems to think that we will not be able to stand against their proud warriors."

Sevora threw back her head and laughed, startling a number of crewmen again. "We will just have to be cautious, won't we?"

The man laughed again; it seemed this was doing him some good. She had missed his sense of humor, so much like her own.

Dropping back, Sevora went to walk beside the cart, eyeing Sammael and Zasfal. Zasfal was managing to make a great amount of noise, while Sammael kept a little dignity, at least. They did look horrible, and they did not smell very nicely, but Sevora knew that this pain certainly wasn't enough to break them. It had better not be, she thought, smirking. Still, she did not wish to break them yet; she needed to use them before that. In a way, that old tribesman, Thorgom, was right. They were warriors; they were not going to be simple to kill. And she already knew that, for the most part, these tribesmen were not going to see where the true path to greatness and pleasure lie.

And there he was, talking to Sammael, who looked...too happy. The man smiled at Thorgom as he said something. Zasfal was quiet for a moment; he must be listening. Sammael and Thorgom were getting along all too nicely. And Zasfal...she was sure Zasfal was just a fool. To think she had actually thought Sammael was perhaps blessed by the Eye. Ghurdan was. Sevora shook her head, partially at the fact that she had been so plainly mistaken, and partially at the irony.

[ July 26, 2003: Message edited by: Durelin ]

[piosenniel]

The trackers return to the valley encampment

It was late in the evening when the outriders had come galloping home. The heaving flanks of the horses were covered in sweat, and their legs trembled from the exertion of so great a distance at so great a speed. Report had been given to the clan leaders of both tribes – the young had not been found, and the Army of the Eye was little more than a half day’s journey from the valley.

Jamílah and Nasr had taken Husam away as soon as he had finished with his report. Nasr, seeing his brother in law, to Jamílah’s tent, went back to take care of his mount, leaving the two of them to talk as she fussed over him and fixed him a plate of food.

‘Tell me what you saw,’ she said, stirring the field beans and onions over the small cooking fire before the tent. Husam sat on a mat near the fire, watching the embers fly up around the edges of the pot. He sipped on the mug of sweet tea she had given him, and watched her as she moved, wondering if Qirfah would grow into her older years as gracefully as had her mother.

The sound of her voice, repeating the question once again, drew him from his reverie, and he gathered his thoughts back around him and told her of the fruitless search for the youngsters. ‘They went steadily west, is all we know. We were always too late to see them. They are with the army that approaches, I am sure of that.’

‘And Bemah,’ she prodded him, handing him a plate of fragrant grains over which the beans and onions had been ladled, ‘What news from him?’ Between bites, he answered her questions. The army had been rumored to be near their holdings. No, they had not seen them yet, nor had they any new of the young ones. She eked out from him news of the other five families who lived in that outlying area.

All were well, he told her. Their families, he had been told, were all in good health. Even Bemah’s old mother still lived, though now her days were spent mostly before the fire in a chair padded for the comfort of her old bones. The six men who owned the lands would be busy soon with the birthings in their goat herds. Luckily their sons would be able to take the rest of the flocks out to pasture. She frowned, wondering out loud what might happen if the young ones were to bother the women when the men were away, but he laughed and shook his head, telling her of the great dogs he had encountered on his visit to Bemah’s holding. ‘Big enough to drive away the great cats, should they find themselves thinking the goats are easy prey.’ There were three about Bemah’s house,’ he told her, ‘and I’m certain the others are just as cautious.’

He wiped the plate clean with a chunk of bread she had given him, then handed the dish and spoon to her. She offered him a slice of melon and refilled his mug, pouring one for herself. Nasr had come back by then, and helped himself to the melon as well. They sat in companionable silence for a space of time.

‘I wonder where they are now?’ Nasr asked, breaking the quiet that surrounded them. He looked toward the stars on the eastern horizon. ‘Qamar must be settling the little ones in for sleep even as we speak.’ He smiled, thinking of Naar, and Ajdal, and little Ashum, seeing their mother sitting near them, singing quietly some old story to them, as she always did at home.

Husam said nothing, turning his face away from the fire’s light and into shadow as he, too, looked eastward.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Jamílah

It was later that night, when her daughters’ husbands had gone to the tent they shared, that Jamílah took out the small pouch from beneath her pillow, She had given her other casting bones to her daughters, but these were her oldest, the ones her mother had made for her when she was eleven summers old and on the cusp of womanhood. As it was night, she held them in her left hand, the one which bore the moon and star.

On the western rim of the world hung the bright evening star, a beacon of hope, or so the old tales said of it – it’s light steady and unwavering, unlike the winking, clustered stars about it. Restless and unable to sleep, she had sat watching it these last few nights. And had thrown the bones to see what their patterns would show beneath its light. An image held steady and became clearer, though what it meant in full she could not grasp as yet.

At first, there were the patterns for a star, and they had grown larger, pushing out the fearsome image the bones had shown her of the Eye when she cast them at the days’ dawnings. Five points it had, and it hung steady touching the quadrants of the north and west. And now the symbol for a man showed near it, small and well defined. What the images meant, she was unsure, they were new to her.

‘Still, they have the feeling of some assurance,’ she said to herself, as she moved her fingers over the bones that lay scattered in the dirt before her. Her hand lingered over them for a moment, then she scooped them up and placed them back in the worn pouch that housed them.

[ August 26, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Ealasaid]

As dusk fell over the tribesmen’s camp, Ahmad found himself looking more and more into the east, in the direction the women and children of the Baobab and Painted Sand tribes had taken in their flight to safety. His mother and sisters had gone with them as had Qirfah, Jamilah’s daughter and, he now knew, the mother of his son. He had been offered the chance to lead the Painted Sand contingent for his father, but had turned it down, preferring to prove himself in battle. Now, he found himself questioning his own judgment. Yet each time he rethought it, he always came to the same conclusion. He was where he should be. He sighed, pulling his eyes away from the darkness in the east, knowing he should be concerning himself now with the darkness that moved ever nearer from the west.

Earlier in the evening, he and his cousins, Adhem and Yusef, had pitched their tent and checked over their weapons, putting everything in readiness for the coming battle. They had eaten a light supper, talking companionably, but keeping the subject away from recent events and what they knew was soon to take place. They had talked aimlessly of horses and hunting, the weather, and anything else they could think of, carefully avoiding any talk of the fleeing women and children. Ahmad knew that Adhem had sent a wife and two small children into the east. And, although Adhem took his part in the conversation, Ahmad could tell Adhem’s thoughts lay with them. After dinner, Ahmad excused himself and walked around the perimeters of the encampment, locating the tents of Jamilah and her sons-in-law amongst those of the Baobab. Remembering his promise to Qirfah, he wanted to drop in and visit with them, to renew their acquaintance before the battle took place, but knew that he would not do it. He had no place with them. His presence would have been awkward at best. Even so, when Jamilah emerged from one of the tents as he passed, he nodded to her. She gave him a long, thoughtful stare, then nodded in return.

Going back to his own tent, Ahmad found it empty, Adhem and Yusef having gone off on walks or errands of their own. Taking advantage of the solitude, Ahmad reached for the vial his mother had given him as a parting gift, the one that contained the poison. He weighed it carefully in his hand, deciding what to do with it. Surely a poison like that was of better use to an archer, or to one of the Baobab hunters with their darts. He wouldn’t dare coat his sword with it for fear that a mistake with the blade would injure himself or one of his own kinsmen. Besides, he doubted there would be enough poison in the little vial to cover such a blade. Instead, he took his dagger from its sheath and, following his mother’s instructions, soaked the blade in the viscous liquid, letting it dry completely before returning the dagger to its sheath.

[ July 30, 2003: Message edited by: Ealasaid ]

[Durelin]

Lyra's Post

“ . . . I never saw her again”

Sammael laughed loudly at the Thorgom’s story- perhaps louder than it deserved. The man was, to say the least, odd but certainly better company than Zasfal who was currently looking daggers at the pair of them. Essenia had not spoken a word for hours, maybe worn out by her uncharacteristic whole sentences earlier. The man sitting perched on the cart in front of him had helped to make the journey slightly more bearable, but now Sammael was ready to drop. His laughs were forced now, and came out in rasping gasps. It had been three hours since he himself told a story, and even Zasfal had stopped moaning as breath became more and more laboured.

With a jerk that knocked Sammael off his feet the cart stopped. Struggling to regain his feet Sammael felt himself pulled up by Thorgom. He smiled thanks at the tribesman, who grinned back then turned to Zasfal who was still trying to stand. Sammael panted quietly, hoping against hope that they had reached the end of the day’s march. Rahvin approached the cart, and instinctively Sammael tried to breathe quieter and more evenly, straightening his back and trying to look calm and collected. He did not know if he fooled the man- likely not- but the pretence made him feel better. Rahvin cut first his, then Zasfal’s ropes silently, sheathed his knife and began to walk away. Resisting the temptation to rub his sore wrists as Zasfal was, Sammael called out.

“Will the punishment continue tomorrow?”

The faintest vestige of a sardonic smile crossed Rahvin’s face as he turned back to face Sammael, but not a word passed his lips. Muttering, Sammael kicked the cart, unsettling Thorgom as he did so. Smiling he offered the man his hand, but winced as he grabbed it. Pain shot through his fingers to his neck. Gingerly he picked up his bags from the wagon and walked to a suitable tent site.

With a grimace he saw Thorgom follow him, but then felt ungrateful and welcomed him with a smile. Over his shoulder he saw Zasfal watching him malevolently, obviously still blaming him for being punished. As some sort of defiance- although he knew not what, unless it was to make Zasfal jealous of his contentment- he began talking loudly and cheerfully to Throgom.

Without the distraction of being dragged along by a cart, he began for the first time to wonder seriously where Damodred was. He hoped they had not chosen him for punishment, because he suddenly realised that that would upset him. It was far easier to appreciate the old man when he was not around looking sourly at him.

No wonder these people think I’m soft,
Sammael thought with a sigh.

Thorgom looked at him quizzically. The story he was in the middle of telling obviously had no need of a sigh. With a grunt of apology Sammael collapsed on the ground, where a sort of sleep washed over him.

[ August 02, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[ August 10, 2003: Message edited by: Durelin ]

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Jasara and the young edged ever closer to the Army of the Eye, but the scouts were hot on their tail and the whole band of tribal warriors was not far behind. It did not worry Jasara anymore, however, for she knew that somehow the Eye would get her through everything. She was too deep in her own hole to dig herself out or stop digging, and there was no way but down. That was all right, though, the Eye had told Jasara so. It would all be over soon, and she would be the victor against the elders. Jasara had originally had little faith in her plans, but with the Eye and it’s voice and visions encouraging her every move, Jasara knew she could not fail.

Nasir sometimes joked about what the thing inside of Jasara was doing to her. She was not the same Jasara he had once known, but he said that her physical form was only a barrier leashing whatever evil was inside of her. If it was killing her and emptying her soul slowly, Jasara did not know it. There was nothing she could do about it either way. Najah did not care either, for it only suited her wicked nature that their leader reflect the horrid things they had done. Uri had followed Fouad and forever had he turned his path. Only Khasia knew her own true and dark intentions, but it mattered not to Jasara anymore. The power was in her, not in Khasia.

The sun was lowering over the eastern skies as the front line of young first spotted the camp of the Eye’s Army. Blood red and orange rays of light flickered against the backs of the young as they marched on, knowing in the back of their hearts that this was the end for most and that their frantic flee from the elders was done for the moment. Jasara smiled evilly as she stood atop the small hill that overlooked the medium-sized encampment. It didn’t look like much, hardly more or less than what the young had with them. However, the Voice had confided with Jasara that with the young along, the forces would be just enough to overpower those of the Painted Sand and Baobab.

Before the young could even reach the Army, they were met by warriors going to the valley just east of their position. The group of young stopped entirely, and Jasara raced to the front lines to speak with the warriors. They looked normal enough, but Jasara continued to shove children out of her way until she made it to the front to speak with the warriors. The warriors seemed confused as they realized that all of the persons in the group were young and under twenty or thirty. Jasara grinned, and motioned for Khasia to follow her to the front. Najah and Nasir were already there, and one of the children had gone and retrieved Uri from the back.

“Where is your leader?” Jasara asked in a strong voice that made her feel and sound more important than she actually was. One of the men stepped forward and away from his troop, holding a sword ready and pointed at Jasara’s stomach. The others in the front of the warrior’s group stuck their weapons out at the other children leaders, but none moved until Jasara spoke again. “We come as an addition to the Army of the Eye. Not only do we outnumber you, but we also seek no trouble from you so I ask that you lower your weapons and tell me what you are doing out here away from your camp.”

The captain of the little group frowned slightly, and jerked his head as a gesture to his men to stand down. The weapons lowered, and the leaders of the young breathed with relief. The leader of the little emissary knitted his brows together in deep thought, as if contemplating whether to lie or to tell truthfully, or whether to ignore Jasara’s request completely and attack their way through the young’s regiment. The man looked up at Jasara after his lapse of momentary hesitation, and held out a hand to shake. Jasara took it, albeit impatiently as she waited for an answer to her question.

“We come this way as an envoy to the tribes of the east. They are camped nearby, or so our scouts say,” the man began; nodding towards the sun and the direction he had been traveling. “We wish to speak and negotiate with them…peacefully…of matters which our mistress the Priestess Sevora has sent us. Who are you? Might you be the tribe that we seek? Why are there no elders among you?”

“I am Jasara, leader of the Baobab and Painted Sand young,” Jasara replied, repeating word for word everything the Eye had told her to say. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, but the rest of her expression was calm and serene. “I would advise against going in search of the elders, for they are certainly not interested in anything Lady Sevora has to bribe or offer. The Eye has split our tribes apart. We, the young, believe we can come to an agreement with the Lady Sevora. The elders may not be trusted, and all who share our beliefs are here now. I ask that you take me, as leader, and my sister Khasia to the Lady Sevora. We must speak with her.”

The man hesitated, contemplating Jasara’s words and weighing her worth. Eventually, with all eyes on him and glares from both sides, the man agreed and began to lead the host of the young back to the Army’s camp.

[Durelin]

Sevora sat in a rickety wooden chair within her personal tent, which Rahvin shared with her, of course. Dristi sat nearby, her beautiful face carved from stone. No. Ice. Sevora almost laughed. The woman had seemed cowed by her punishment, but, then, she had only seemed, ready to murder whenever she thought Sevora wasn't looking. She knew Dristi was hard to break, and had a certain respect for the woman because of that. She respected her, respected her as a person just below. And second in command must be kept in his or her place. There was no room for anything but acceptance. Sevora really didn't want to break Dristi. Just as with Sammael and Zasfal, broken, the woman would never be as useful then. Why couldn't the fool just learn to accept?

Sevora let out a long sigh, rising from her chair. For a split second, she was sure she had seen surprise manifest on Dristi's icy face. Of course, the sigh. She hadn't done that in quite a long time, had she… This time Sevora did laugh, throwing back her head and howling. Dristi continued to sit watching her with eyes as icicles, trying to pierce. Most likely trying to determine why in the Great Lord of the Dark's radiance was Sevora laughing. The laughter was cut off abruptly, and Sevora's face was as cold and languid as ever, but with eyes all but burning with a light of something…perhaps mischief, of all things.

"Do you believe the old tribesman spoke truth?" she asked Dristi.

"I do. Only a fool would speak as if attempting to frighten servants of the Eye, and not speak truth. And he is no fool. He is ignorant." The word 'frighten' rolled off her tongue in a most disgusted manner.

"Yes. And we must not underestimate this old man, ignorant or fool. We must be cautious…ignorance can spread" It seemed Dristi caught her hint. Yes, to be respected…

"Do you propose a sort of…mutiny occurring?"

"It is a possibility, however small it would be. It can be quelled easily, if we are careful. I am sure that the majority of our…forces, if they can be called that, are loyal. Ghurdan actually goes as far to be blessed by the Great Lord. And that means his crew will stand behind him."

"I know," Drist said with a scowl, probably because Sevora questioned her of what she was aware of. "So you would expect it from only two or three would reveal themselves as treacherous?"

"Yes, though they could prove to be a problem, considering the fact that our numbers really are not all that large. But, again, they will not be, if we are careful."

Dristi opened her mouth to reply, but she was stopped as one of Ghurdan's crew entered the tent. With a low, formal bow, hand to heart, he waited for Sevora to motion for him to speak. With a nod and a gesture from her, the man began to speak, receiving a quick sour look from Dristi. "Priestess Sevora…Priestess Dristi," he began, bowing again toward each. So he decided to include Dristi…a smart man. "The scouts have returned and --"

"Alrady?" Sevora and Dristi asked together, both in the same bored, incredulous tone.

"Yes. They were intercepted by some of the tribesmen. Their apparent leaders wish to speak with you…m'lady." He looked uncertain at this title for Sevora, but she would except almost any title. They were unimportant as long as there were said, out of respect.

"We meant to give them the courtesy of meeting on their own ground and their own terms, but if they refuse…" Rahvin slipped in the tent at that moment to stand behind Sevora's chair. Naramarth followed close behind and took a seat in the third chair, near Sevora's but far from where Dristi was seated. Sevora's eyes ran over them for a moment before she continued. "Bid them enter."

Sevora had barely reached her chair to stand in front of it before the tribesmen entered. Dristi had risen, too, and luckily. But of course the woman knew all the proprieties of…negotiation. Naramarth glanced around before he rose and Sevora suppressed a scowl. The tribesmen leaders emerged from the boiling sun into the dim tent, the violent switch seeming to barely effect them. There were two women and a man, all hardly deserving of being called 'man' or 'woman'. They were more like a boy and two girls! What had that lout of Ghurdan's not told her? Leaders were always considered the wisest of the group, and even though wisdom came at varying ages, never did it come till long past grey hairs among infidels. Even if the tribes did pass on the rite of leaders through heirs, the tribal infidels lived a long time, and none of these children could have lost a parent as of yet. The split. The thought ran through her mind, but she knew it was not hers. She smiled. The Eye was kind to her. Still, some questions needed answering. Either this side of the tribe consisted of fools, or they were all of such young ages. And why had this side come to her? She suspected that crewman had forgotten something…or left it out deliberately.

"I am Priestess Sevora of the Order of the Eye. This is Priestess Dristi and Priest Naramarth, both also of the Order. We come to your land in order to spread the word, truth, and knowledge of the Great Lord of the Dark." Sevora said incongruously, with a slight, respectful decline of her head.

One of the young women stepped forward. "And I am Jasara, leader of the Baobab and Painted Sand young."

There it was…something in her eyes. Sevora had seen it before, all too many times. That cold flame that burnt with a fervent, macabre light, full of undying knowledge. Oh, yes, this one was wise. For the second time in minutes, Sevora howled with laughter. Yes, the Great Lord is kind to me.

[ August 20, 2003: Message edited by: Durelin ]

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

“This is Uri,” Jasara continued, after a moment of seemingly impenetrable silence. She motioned to Uri, who bowed shortly and put up a momentary fight with Jasara to stand in the forefront of their small group. Jasara sneered in Uri’s general direction. “He is…was…the second in command of the Painted Sand young, until the leader was cruelly murdered by the elders for worshipping the Eye. I’m sure you would have enjoyed Fouad’s company much more than you will Uri’s.”

Uri glared at Jasara evilly and menacingly, but Jasara shrugged it off. It was true…Fouad was as much a believer as Jasara was. He knew the Eye and its power personally like Jasara had. Only his curse could be disposed of, and Jasara’s was a permanent scar of what would never disappear. The ghastly voice did not bother Jasara as it once had; it had made her stronger than those who did not understand it. Jasara was jostled from her thoughts when Khasia elbowed her in the ribs, urging her sister for an introduction.

“And this is my sister Khasia,” Jasara added simply as an afterthought, which made Uri snicker at Khasia and led Khasia to kick her sister in the shin. Jasara rolled her eyes dramatically, embarrassed that her sister and one of the other leaders were acting in such vile and childish ways. “We come to offer ourselves to the forces of the Eye, and to warn you that you will find no success in the camp of the elders. They have become vicious and adamant in their repulsion and disagreement to the beliefs of the Eye. They cannot be trusted and if possible must be destroyed, for though they pose little threat to the forces of the Eye, they will never bend to the will of the Great Eye or comprehend it’s meanings.”

The Priestess Sevora smirked wickedly and nodded in response to Jasara’s words. The leader of the young noticed something in the dark lady’s eyes…something Jasara had never seen before other than in her own reflection in a pool of water. A distant look, one of simplistic connotation, one that could only be required by the extensive act of grasping for something dark and evil that no one should ever be exposed to. Jasara knew that look, and knew that anyone who looked upon both she and Sevora in equal glances would realize the resemblance.

“I need not suffer in silence when I can still hear you moan, whimper, and complain about everything, Naramarth,” Jasara heard vaguely as she snapped out of her reverie. Sevora had snapped haughtily at the Priest, who lifted a brow dully before quelling his expression at Sevora’s glare. She then jerked her head to the entryway flap of the tent, which snapped innocently with the wind. Naramarth moved for the door, but momentarily hesitated as if he were actually waiting for further orders from Sevora.

“Why don’t you take our friends here,” Sevora continued, gesturing wispily to Uri and Khasia. Uri’s dark eyes widened, and he pointed to himself as if to make certain that Sevora meant him. Khasia stamped her foot. Sevora nodded impatiently. “Take our friends here out while I speak to the leader of the willing young.”

“Oh, right! Don’t worry. I forgot your name too! Jasara, just because I don't care about whatever killed Fouad doesn't mean I don't understand!” Uri shouted at Sevora and Jasara angrily as Naramarth moved to restrain and take the boy outside. Khasia was grabbed by the priest too until Jasara pulled her sister away from the man, remembering that the Eye had told her to let Khasia tag along for a while. Uri was led outside, so Khasia and Jasara were left alone with Sevora and Dristi.

“Having control over myself is nearly as good as having control over others,” Sevora murmured, her voice soft but sickeningly slow as if the air she exhaled contained deadly poison or venom. It did not bother Jasara in the least, however. It was a feminine counterpart to the beautiful but deadly voice that haunted Jasara. The tone was soothing after so many years, and Jasara loathed and hated the voices’ tone as much as she loved and appreciated it.

“It is not enough to simply succeed. Others must fail and the elders must die in the process,” Jasara spoke, nodding to Khasia. It was the simplest way to state the young’s current position with the elders. It was win or lose, live or die. Jasara wanted to win and live.

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

Khasia listened to Jasara's first exchange with the priestess. The expression on her face was skeptical, as was her usual habit when anything was new or strange. Best they think she was bored. Khasia knew better than to show fear. Her dark eyes lingered on the Priestesses' faces-- the one proud and self contained, the other finely sculpted and beatiful-- then wandered across that of the Priest, Naramarth. But they finally came back to rest on Sevora's face. The woman was powerful and it radiated from her, nearly palpable in the small tent. Her face fascinated Khasia, from the opacity of her eyes to the sneer on her lips.

Jasara's introduction of her was brief and dismissive. Khasia reacted with a swift kick to her sister's leg. Jasara's obvious embarrassment pleased her, and she smirked to herself as Uri was taken struggling from the tent. When the women were alone again Jasara spoke quietly. "It is not enough to simply succeed." Sevora nodded, her movements slow and considered, the twisted crown of wire on her head catching Khasia's eye again. The girl straightened her white tunic, conscious of the humility of her clothing.

In Sevora's bearing and voice Khasia caught a glimpse of the vision her sister followed. The malice and dignity of the Eye she served, and the power. Power such as Khasia had never tasted of or dreamed. This Priestess weilded the power of life and death over everyone in the camp. Khasia licked her lips. Such a life was beyond her, beyond her training and her reach. Yet Jasara's Eye had sent her an opportunity, and opportunity was not to be wasted. The Priestess Dristi caught her eye, a slow ironic smile twisted her lips, almost a sneer.

Jasara continued to speak, their strength, their numbers, the hatred that fueled them. Her words drifted over Khasia with little effect; her mind was racing, fascinated with the morbid splendour of the Priestesses' garb, with the indifference in their eyes and their easy self-possession. One thought repeated itself louder and louder in the back of Khasia's mind. Displace Jasara. Make her power your own.

[ August 04, 2003: Message edited by: Sophia the Thunder Mistress ]

[Nerindel]

Ghurdan, Damodred and the newly recruited warriors caught up with the others shortly before nightfall, they were camped at the edge of the grasslands. As they approached Ghurdan could see about forty smaller figures gathered together in the midst of the camp, as they got nearer he could she that they were children, ranging from the ages of twelve to twenty five and everyone armed with sword or bow. Ghurdan looked at Damodred who just shrugged, they watched the children with mild interest as they passed.

They also saw that Sammael and Zasfal had been freed from their punishment, Zasfal rubbed at his wrists obviously burnt by the pulling of the rope, but Sammael on the other hand seemed his cheerful self and spoke loudly with Thorgom, "It looks like he has found a new friend, in your absence!" Ghurdan laughed inclining his head towards Sammael and Thorgom, but Damodred just shrugged and made his way towards his young friend, "remember my warning, regarding that one" he whispered to the mans back, in a voice that was not entirely his own.

He then turned to the warriors and told them to join the camp and to be ready to leave when the Priestesses gave the order. He then turned and headed to Sevora's tent, two of his crew stood guard at the entrance, and nodded respectfully as he approached. once inside he saw that the Priestess had company, Rahvin who he expected to be there stood in his usual place at Sevora's right shoulder and Dristi sat at her left side and across from them stood a young girl, around the age of nineteen he guessed, her silk black curly hair shone in the light of the lantern that hung above her head, at her side stood a younger girl, they all turned to look at him as he entered, he made the customary gesture of respect then talked directly to Sevora, " Twenty, of the villages warriors answered the Eyes call." he told her not sure how much the priestesses wanted said infront of the child.

Sevora nodded then gesturing to the youngster she said "this is Jasara, The leader of the Baobab and Painted sand young and her sister Khasia" she said grinning at him "And this is Ghurdan, one of our captains" she informed the girls. Ghurdan inclined his head to them, but as his eyes meet with Jasara's he saw the cold light that he saw burn in Sevora's eye's on more than one occasion and he knew this one held the favour of their lord.

"Take a seat Ghurdan some of what Jasara has told us may interest you?" he nodded respectfully then took a seat and listened intently to what the young woman had to say.

[ August 01, 2003: Message edited by: Nerindel ]

[Arien]

Dristi crossed her legs and watched the two girls and the boy with some amazement, of course she did not show this on her face. Like always she listened but kept the same solid expression on her face.

"I am Priestess Sevora of the Order of the Eye. This is Priestess Dristi and Priest Naramarth, both also of the Order. We come to your land in order to spread the word, truth, and knowledge of the Great Lord of the Dark." Sevora introduced them to the newcomers. Dristi’s eyes gazed over them as they introduced themselves. Jasara seemed to be the most mature out of all of them but Dristi liked Khasia out of all of them. She looked a little doubtful about the whole affair, and Dristi thought this was good. She was wary of what she was doing, she was clever. At least she did not run into things blinded, without examining it at first. It was a strength over her sister, who seemed to be too over confident or scared. She could not tell but Jasara gave the impression of an attitude much like Sevora’s.

She continued to listen intently to the two converse, and then the boy was sent out. A mild bit of amusement for the day she thought, maybe the first useful thing that Naramarth had done thus far on this trip. She knew very well she too had done nothing of any sort to help, but she wasn’t about to admit that to herself. Her eyes crossed over Khasia’s face and she gave her a twisted sort of smile. Her sister now talked about the numbers that perused them and those that they had. Dristi listened carefully, this information could be vital in any tactical strike they were going to use. If they were going to use any. If they did she had better be included in the agreement, she may not look like a tactician but she was one of the Citadel’s best, in fact the best. She doubted Sevora would tell their company this, so she made a point to tell them herself.

As she carefully added numbers in her head Ghurdan entered the tent. Sevora welcomed him with his information that they had obtained twenty more fighters from the village. The would certainly give them a slight advantage, but only if the enemy did not have skilled fighters. Dristi doubted this, it would be close but she was sure that they would prevail.

“It will be close….” she spoke up from her seat.

“What?” asked Sevora, attempting to keep her dislike for her undercover.

“It will be close…”

“What will be…explain yourself!” she replied exasperatedly.

“If we fight…”she continued, “we will only just prevail..there will be heavy deaths received by both sides...”

“What!” exclaimed Ghurdan, “ we will crush them!”

“Oh really,” Dristi replied Slyly, “ care to wager…?”

“Dristi..” smiled Sevora, “what makes you think I want to fight them?”

[ August 02, 2003: Message edited by: Arien ]

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

“Thanks for not embarrassing me half as much as you usually do, Khasia,” Jasara murmured to her sister as the Priestesses and the newcomer spoke to each other about the numbers of the young. Khasia glowered back at Jasara with an evil sparkle in her eyes and bit her lip. Jasara smiled in mock sweetness. “Those of you who think you know everything are very annoying to those of us who actually do, dear sister.”

“You might think that hatred makes you stronger, it also makes you seem blind and stupid. Do not order me around; I don’t need you. You’re acting just like the elders,” Khasia spat out the last word, and it made Jasara cringe inwardly. Jasara knew her sister better than anyone else did, but she still didn’t know what Khasia wanted from this meeting. Why did she want to be there?

Your sister wants to impress the Priestesses. It fascinates her. Khasia wants what you have, she wants to take the place of Dristi or Sevora. Don't let her usurp your power. Don't let your sisterly bonds get in the way of what you are destined for, Jasara. Khasia must not get in the way.

The voice was right. It shed new light on what Khasia had wanted all along. Khasia was jealous, Khasia wanted to have the power Jasara had. Jasara glared at her sister suddenly with new venom and hatred, and Khasia moved back ever so slightly. Then Khasia glared back with anger and impatience that mirrored Jasara's own.

"I'll start acting nicer when you start making sense and stop trying to take advantage of the generous opportunity I have given you. I didn't have to let you come along! All you want is the chance to take what I have and leave me to die!" Jasara hissed shrilly at Khasia. Not that Jasara wouldn't have done the same thing had she been in Khasia's position, but it didn't matter at that moment. What mattered to Jasara was that Khasia leave and stop trying to steal the glory that belonged to Jasara.

"I won't let you take this chance away from me! Sister or no, I won't have you holding me back!" Khasia muttered back, calm and cool as she hid her true emotions. The two girls had a staredown for a few moments, but then turned away from each other to face the three older people that were still talking across the tent.

“What makes you think I want to fight them?” Jasara heard Sevora say moments after her fued with Khasia. Jasara stifled a slight gasp. What did that mean? Were they not going to attack the elders? They had to! They had to get revenge! All Jasara really wanted was revenge, but was that so wrong? A battle certainly would kill a lot of people, but all the elders would have died soon anyway, and anyone else would die sooner or later!

Jasara looked up at Sevora and Dristi, staring momentarily at their matching crimson and ebony robes and their crowns of thorns. Sevora's eyes were deep and knowledgable; they matched Jasara's eyes, which had taken in much since the beginning days of the rebellion. Dristi's eyes were just a shade or two lighter than black, but they were full of wonderment and rapture. When Jasara turned her gaze over to Ghurdan, the first thing Jasara noticed was the long scar that spread from his left eye to the bottom of his stubborn chin. Ghurdan's dark skin and dark hair were only contrasted against the three gold rings in his right ear as he smiled evilly at Jasara and Khasia.

[ August 05, 2003: Message edited by: Aylwen Dreamsong ]

[piosenniel]

Nerindel's post

"What!" exclaimed Ghurdan, " we will crush them!" his eyes burned with silent rage, he and his men had fought the infidels of the north and survived time and time again, he thought this foray to be no different.

"Oh really," Dristi replied Slyly, " care to wager…?" Ghurdans lips twisted into a wry grin and his dark eyes twinkled letting Dristi know that he would take her wager and that he understood that she had indeed heard the wager that his young first mate had made with him at the start of their journey. But before he could answer Sevora intervened.

"Dristi.." smiled Sevora, "what makes you think I want to fight them?"

They both turned and looked to Sevora, Ghurdan did not understand, they had just been told that the Elders would not be converted and he had orders to Annihilate those who would not follow the path of the Dark Lord.

"We are here to Teach them the true path and we cannot do that if they are dead" her voice honeyed as she spoke. "But they will not turn! these girls have already said as much!" Ghurdan exclaimed indicating both Jasara and Khasia, "Yes, but they have not yet heard what we have to offer!" Dristi put in, nodding her head in understanding of what Sevora meant to do. Ghurdan turned and looked at the pair, his brow knitted in frustration, "Do not worry my friend, there may yet be the battle you crave, If what they say is true then not all will convert and if none convert We Will Crush Them!" But Sevora seemed to look as if she was sure that they would convert.

Ghurdan then saw Sevora's blindness, in her arrogance she really believed she had the power to convert these heathens, but he believed that they would not yield and if she was not going to be prepared then he would be. "We should at least scout out their camp, I will lead the scouting party myself !" Sevora scowled at him, but then something flickered in her ebony eyes and she granted the sea captains request.

"One of them should come with me, if my assumptions are right then they will know were the tribe might move their camp." Sevora's patience was growing thin, "Very well take the younger girl and the boy named Uri, Naramath will point him out for you." she hissed at him. Ghurdan bowed, ever his eye on the priestesses and bade for Khasia to follow him, she seemed reluctant to leave and glowered at her sister as if this was some how her doing.

Ghurdan did not ask the priest which of the children was Uri instead the told Khasia to call him. Ghurdan had seen enough in the meeting to know that his dark lord was both cunning and wise, he knew that if anything were to happen to Sevora or Dristi these sisters would be trained to take their place in the Citadel, they were already much alike the two priestesses and as the boy approached he wondered if this one was Naramath's replacement, 'And who is to be my replacement' he thought, laughing out loud and scanning the group of converts that sat together, never once thinking that any within his own group would be worthy of taking his place.

He then went to the Cart and started to unhitch the two sand coloured horses, "Can you ride" he asked Khasia and Uri as he heard them approach, "Of course" the boy scoffed, Ghurdan turned slowly to regard him, his young eyes flashed with malice and he stood tall with his chest puffed out in defiance. Ghurdan grinned at his defiance then turned to Khasia, "And you are...." "I am capable!" she put in before he could finish. "Here! you will have to ride together until we acquire more," he said passing the reigns to Khasia, he then mounted the second horse and looked eastward.

"They are horse riders then, your kinsmen" he asked Uri as they trotted eastward through the camp, "Yes, there is a village and a few farmsteads not far east from here that they trade with." Uri answered seeing were his line of questioning was leading, "the farmsteads are mostly goat farms and of little use to us, unless you plan to ride goats into battle" Khasia scoffed at Uri. "But there is a horse breeder that lives a little south of the village," he spat back at Khasia, "my Father took me there several times, he has at least twenty horses if my memory serves me well. He will not welcome us!" Uri continued turning back to Ghurdan. "Yes! it is likely that the elders have warned the farmsteads of your coming and of our rebellion." Khasia added. Ghurdan watch the pair , before him he saw children but hearing them speak he heard small warriors planning and contriving. He put up his hand to silence them, "First we will scout out the camp and on the return we will see if we can acquire some horses, ok!" He was a little relieved when they both nodded, and offered no more defiance.

They were just leaving the camp when a large and muscular man stood in Ghurdans path, "So where are you off to now Sandworm?" Thorgom hissed, "I am off to do something that you and the others should have done long ere I returned." he spat maliciously at the man that blocked his path, some of his pent up anger starting to escape. "But it was you that had two of our company tied up" he spat back venomously, "but that would not stop you from taking their place or did you fear running into one of your kinsmen" Thorgom reached for his axe, but Ghurdan just laughed and rode on with the two youngsters looking at him incredulously.

They rode in silence for some time. Uri was the first to break the silence "He could have killed you !" he whispered "Yes and I believe he would have if he believed that we did not need every man" "and woman," he put in seeing Khasia's cold look, "to crush the tribes warriors, he like you does not believe they will submit to the teachings of the eye."

"He is one of them, and I for one could never trust him" Khasia spat "I too have my doubt regarding him, but it is not my place to question who the eye deems fit to travel in our company, but you are wise not to trust people you have just met!" "even you!" Khasia hissed. "Yes, even me!" he laughed.

They carefully avoided the village and farmsteads as they swiftly made there way to where the two tribes had camped. As Ghurdan had expected the camp described by Jasara was deserted and from what he could see it had been for sometime, Ghurdan found many horse tracks heading back the way they had just come, "So where would they go!" he said aloud to the night air, not really expecting an answer. "The valley!" Khasia and Uri exclaimed together. "it is not far back the way we came" Khasia put in, "Yes I remember seeing it, but I saw no scouts " he said thoughtfully. They mounted their horses and headed towards the valley.

Hiding their horses some distance off, they climbed the rocky ridge to get a better look. They had narrowly avoided a few of the tribes scouts, but from the ridge Ghurdan could see the tents below on the eastern side of the stream, the numbers tallied with what Jasara and Khasia had all ready told them, they watch scouts coming and going and Uri even named a few he thought he could make out.

As they returned silently to their horses he took in the surrounding area for possible attack and defensive positions, of the latter their was not much, the Tribesmen were clever in moving to this location, he thought to himself.

They rode swiftly to the farm that Uri had told him they could acquire horses, he halted them a short distance from the farm, it was late and all the lights in the farmstead where out, "we must do this quietly" he told the other two "do you know were the horses are kept?" he whispered to Uri, the lad nodded "they are not stabled but penned to the rear of the building" "Good, then all we have to do is open the gate and lead them quietly out, do you think you can do that?" the pair nodded and like two small shadows they slopped off into the darkness. Ghurdan went to the door of the homestead in case the owners decided to awaken and interrupt them, he stood with his sword drawn and watched as Khasia and Uri successfully freed and lead the horses from the farm, without sheathing his sword he went to join them.

"Ten" Khasia said triumphantly, but Uri did not hear her he was staring raptly at the red stone that was the pommel of Ghurdans sword "Foaud" he whispered, Khasia turned and followed his gaze to the red stone shaped like an fiery eye that sat atop the hilt of Ghurdan's sword, she shrugged not knowing what Uri was getting at and turned to choose one of the horses for herself. Ghurdan too followed Uri's gaze to the hilt of his sword, "A gift from the great eye for services rendered" he grinned as he slipped the sword into it's sheath.

"Come, I wish to be back before daybreak!" It was just after daybreak when they returned, for the journey back was slowed with ten horses in tow and their efforts to avoid being seen. The company was awake and the camp was being broken and packed up. Ghurdan dismounted and headed for Sevora's tent, he heard the other two follow behind him. Sevora and Dristi were waiting for him when he entered the tent, "What kept you, my friend" Sevora asked sardonically, Ghurdan grinned and told them all that they had learnt, not omitting that together Khasia and Uri had acquired horses for them, "Ten no less" Ghurdan laughed.

He noted that Dristi eyed Khasia with a satisfied glint in her near black eyes, Ghurdan laughed internally 'if only she knew' he thought to himself. "Good" was Sevora's only reply, Ghurdan could she that she was working a plan. "go and eat" she ordered Khasia and Uri, who both started to protest, "you will be sent for when needed," Dristi assured them, though to Ghurdan it seemed that she spoke only to Khasia.

"We will camp just inside the valley then I will take an envoy to the tribe and spread the word of our great and illustrious lord" Sevora said as soon as the youngsters had left, "And who shall be part of this convoy?" Ghurdan asked.

[ August 07, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Durelin's post

Sevora adjusted her black robes, which she, Dristi, and Naramarth had changed back into as soon as they had reached the tribes. She felt much more at ease in the familiar red and black garb, but, then, the frustration and anger were all too familiar, too. She was suddenly aware of the twisted metal around her head; a metal thorn was digging into her skin. There had always been one that scratched, hadn't there… She had been gone from the Citadel for too long. She was beginning to seem absent minded, of all things! She really couldn't keep her head straight for too long, especially in silence. Silence. No, it was not silent. There was the buzz of low conversation coming from just over there, and the occasional creak of one of those rickety chairs that could be folded up. But inside… No! she screamed inside. She gripped the arms of her chair till her knuckles were white, and her fingernails dug into the wood. She shook her head once, hoping to clear it. Clear it of what? The voice was cold and harsh, sounding so much like her grating fingernails she could have laughed, if she were not busy basking in it. But the bliss was gone as soon as it had come, and she cried out in her mind. But there was no more. It was silent. So silent.

A sharp cracking noise and a stinging pain made her jump. Which only made her angrier. Barely holding back a snarl, Sevora looked toward the source of the pain. She had broken a fingernail. Now she laughed out loud, a cold, mirthless laugh, hoarse with rage. That her finger could ever be a source of pain. Pain. But that was not the kind of pain she wanted, not how she wanted to receive pain, not where she wished it to be from. Memories haunted her, memories of a cold stone floor, of hot blood running down her arm, of the Eye…of him stroking her very being, mind and soul. She would swear before the High Priest that he had touched her as if petting a cat that had been good. But he had not touched her body. He had touched her. He had! But she knew, and knew that she was avoiding it. It made her wish to weep. He had. Ghurdan, and this Jasara, but not her. Not anymore. The Great Lord had almost entirely abandoned her. He neglected her of his presence, of even a few words. Except for a fiery reminder of the truth. Since they had left the Citadel, Sevora had been talked to…once. And she had received only a planted thought, after that. It seemed she was not worth sparing effort. Was she not a good cat?

Sevora barely stopped her hands from clutching at her heart. That had been her thought. She actually thought of herself as… Well, she did belong to the Great Lord, but…scraping and begging for little favors from him was far from…her. Dristi and Ghurdan were looking at her strangely. And who shall be part of this convoy? A voice floated across her mind. Of course…he had asked. For the love of darkness, she had lost so much! No! She would not let him take it all! She pushed away any other thoughts, getting a firm hold on herself. "I hope that Dristi would be willing to lead the envoy…" She paused slightly to give Dristi a polite look, but one that said she really did not have a choice, then continued in a much lighter tone. She was feeling better already. A cat…perhaps she did like that. And a cat that was quite capable of taking care of herself. "I also hope we can spare five of your men, Ghurdan…" Again, she made sure he was well aware that they could spare five of his crewmen. "And…Rahvin, to accompany you." She said Rahvin's name as if as an after thought, though she would never have considered sending Dristi without Rahvin to oversee. He would not step in at any time, but he always brought back excellent reports. The man had a good memory, and a very good eye.

"I considered sending Khasia and some of those young, but I belive, as the situation stands…it would provoke insolence from the start. They cannot refuse the Eye, but we must do everything cautiously, all the same. Human error is the downfall for too many of the Great Lord's plans." They cannot refuse the Eye… Those words, they had had nothing of her usual fervor and certainty in them. And the thought had been anything but certain. The Eye had abandoned her, after all. But it was with Ghurdan…and Jasara. Her hands tightened into fists, and she was vaguely aware of her nails digging into her palm. All but one nail. Ghurdan must have seen the anger in her eyes, and he rose, bowing slightly to both priestesses. "As you say, so it will be. I will choose five of my men and prepare." With that he left. Dristi was frowning slightly at his retreating back. At least Dristi was not blessed. Oh how that would have rubbed salt in the wound! "You will be…polite with the infidels…?" It was not truly a question. "We must hope they will see sense. But if they do not, I expect you will keep your eyes open?" Again, not any question about it. "The…scouting party was helpful in some respects, but not so in others. Also, I know you will not mention our little tribesmen allies. We will need every advantage still within our grasp. You were absolutely right, Dristi, it will be close. Very close, with heavy losses, if we are forced to action. And unless, of course, we make sure it is not." The cat can take care of itself. It must.

[ August 10, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Early morning of the day of the Envoy’s arrival

The feeling of hope the bones had shown her last night stayed with her until the sun crested the eastern rim of the world. Up early, she had watched for the light to break, glad that she had cached that hope for the new day. The sky grew red as the sun rose, and the old rhyme of those who sailed the Eastern Sea came back to her.

Red sky at night,
Sailors’ delight.
Red sky in the morning,
Sailors take warning.

There was a certain, underlying feeling of agitation and high expectancy about the camp. Most of the warriors were up already, that charged air of imminent battle putting them on the alert. The enemy was near, and there was a certain thrill that ran through the men as they waited for some movement on the part of their foe to happen that would free them for action.

She, herself, was untouched by the energy that flowed around her. In the calm eye of the coming storm is where she moved, all her steps leading where they must . . .

[ August 07, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Nasr crouched down by the cooking fire and stirred the pot of thick mush that would be their breakfast. Qamar, even in the haste of packing herself and her three children up, had managed to provision him with dried fruits and pouches of nuts, and dried meats. He smiled as he stirred dried dates into the gruel, thinking of his wife and sweet children.

Husam watched from the doorway of the tent as Nasr made their breakfast. He envied the man, but not in a bitter way. Such happiness was not for him, through no fault of his own. And he laid no blame at Qirfah’s feet, either. He loved her and he knew she could never return his feelings for her.

Lost in his thoughts, Nasr did not hear the other man’s approach. Husam crouched beside him, and clasped him on the shoulder. ‘Smells good, brother! It will get us through this long day.’ He stood and started toward Jamílah’s tent. He could see her standing beyond it a way, to the east. ‘Let me fetch little-mother to come eat with us.’

‘Brother,’ thought Nasr, ‘I have never heard that from him. And “little-mother”, that’s how one speaks of one’s own mother.’ He shook his head, watching Husam as he walked away.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A certain quality of unruffled repose settled about him as he walked to where Jamílah stood. As if he had fallen into a deep pool of still water; its surface, undisturbed by his entry, closing over him without a trace.

‘Little-mother,’ he called softly to her, his teeth flashing in a smile as she turned to him. ‘Come, Nasr is waiting . . . break your fast with us.’

‘The day is upon us,’ she said, taking his offered hand. Her face was grave as she regarded his. But he only smiled again, drawing her on toward the promise of a simple meal in the company of loved ones.

[Ealasaid]

Ahmad and Adhem

Ahmad awoke early, just as the sun’s rays broke over the eastern horizon. He felt restless and oddly impatient for the day to begin, for the group of them to get moving again, to do what they had ridden so far to do. Usually a patient man, this time he found the waiting to be wearing on his nerves. He rose quietly and went out of the tent to check his weapons again or to fuss with his saddle… anything to keep himself occupied. He had not been outside more than a few minutes before he was joined by Adhem, who had an odd, haunted look about him.

Ahmad wished him a good morning and went on checking the straps and buckles on his saddle. He knew that if Adhem had something he wished to talk about, he would get to it in his own time. Adhem simply nodded his greeting and walked past Ahmad to look into the now brightening western sky. After a long moment, he turned and strode back to where Ahmad still stood. He held out a small leather pouch.

“I was hoping you would take this for me,” he said quietly. “Give it to my wife should I be slain here.”

Ahmad took the pouch. It felt very light, almost empty. “Why me?”

Adhem smiled. “Because I trust you. And, besides, you have the luck of the jackrabbit who stole the merchant’s grain,” he added, referring to an old fable they had all heard as children. “I, on the other hand, seem to have the luck of the merchant.”

Ahmad grinned. It was a bit of an exaggeration, but not enough to quibble over. “What if I am the one to die?”

“Then a very personal letter to my wife falls into the hands of the enemy.”

“Ah!” Ahmad nodded and tucked the pouch away. “Your love letters are safe with me.”

Adhem gave him a sideways glance, but, for a moment or so, said nothing more. When he did speak, it was quietly, as if he feared being overheard.

“Did you dream last night?” he asked.

Ahmad stopped what he was doing. “No. I slept like a stone. Did you?”

Adhem nodded. “It was probably the most vivid dream I have ever had. And I have never been much for dreaming.” The haunted look that had vanished as they talked had crept back into his eyes. “It was the Eye. I saw it.”

“And it saw me,” he finished. “Something is very wrong here.”

*****************************************

Yusef

Yusef watched first Ahmad, then Adhem, leave the tent shortly after dawn. When he was sure that they were gone, he reached into his bedding and pulled forth a leather pouch of his own. Opening it, he dropped a small stone into the palm of his hand. About the size of a gold coin, it was nearly perfectly round and of such a dark shade of red that it looked nearly black until he held it up toward the light. Then, it shone a vibrant crimson.

After admiring it for an moment against the morning light that filtered through the fabric of the tent, Yusef closed his fist around it. The stone had been weighing heavily on his mind lately. Now that they had gotten so near to the camp of the priestesses, it had become nearly an obsession. There was no voice or presence that spoke to him through the stone the way it had spoken to Fouad before, but he was constantly aware of it. He knew he had to bring it, to deliver it somehow, to the priestess. She would reward him. She would reward him handsomely. He smiled to himself.

Had it been merely luck that he, and he alone, had been the one to see the stone fall when Fouad had been seized? Had it been merely luck that no one had seen him retrieve the stone from where it lay, half-concealed, in the dust? He thought not. The Eye had willed the stone to come to him. It had a plan for him. A purpose. Yusef knew it, and he waited.

[ August 10, 2003: Message edited by: Ealasaid ]

[Arien]

“……You were absolutely right, Dristi, it will be close. Very close, with heavy losses, if we are forced to action. And unless, of course, we make sure it is not." Dristi nodded and left the tent with a smug smile on her face. She watched as Ghurdan gathered a few of his men. She made her way to the her own private tent, and to her annoyance found she was being tailed by none other that Sevora’s babysitter. She turned on her heels and rolled her eyes as she came face to face with him. He was far taller than she, and he held so much power in his hands he could break her two in an instant. But Dristi was quicker than he and he would also dare not to touch one of the Order of The Eye. So Dristi was fully able to annoy and humiliate him at her discretion.

“Yes?” she questioned her voice full of annoyance , her hands placed firmly on her hips, “ I know she asked you to watch me, but not until we leave…..are you that stupid?.” It was a rhetorical question, not meant for his answer. But under his breath she could swear she heard the words: Yes, but not as stupid as you. Dristi decided to let it pass as she was in quite a good mood for some strange reason, she turned again leaving Rahvin standing in the middle of the camp his eyes burning with the anger that he could not tear that pretty smile from her face. Dristi, however, was quite pleased. When she reached her tent, which was situated the other side of the camp from the main one she slipped in past the hangings at the front.

Dristi made her way, firstly to her weapons. A safety precaution, you never knew what was going to happen in a situation like this. She laid out her two curved knives, encrusted with rubies for a symbol of The Eye. And the two smaller knives, the blades not even three inches long. She placed these on a table and then changed into more heat friendly clothing. She discarded the heavy garb of the priesthood. And instead wore a shouldered, black leather jacket, which underneath was concealed iron mail. It was heavy, but not so heavy that she would rather risk her life. She placed on her bottom half a light black skirt that reached just above her knees. Somehow she knew Sevora would disapprove of what she now wore, but she would still wear her priestess cloak just to please her.

Dristi also placed black leather boots that reached halfway up her calf and inside them were the small knives. The larger knives were worn upon her belt which was around her waste. It also carried a vial poison and a flask of water. She left her hair to flow by her sides, which wasn’t very wise as the heat scorched it, but she could find nothing really to tie it with. As she left she donned her crimson and black cloak and fastened it at the top. She stepped out into the heat of the day and made her way to the rest of the envoy.

She looked at them, Rahvin and Gurdhan stood nearest to her and Gurdhan’s five men were a little behind.

“So,” she spoke softly, “if you are all ready let us take our leave….”

[Nerindel]

Ghurdan gathered five of his most loyal men, then went to his tent to prepare. He changed into dark brown trousers and a sleeveless dark red tunic with gold trim, under which he wore a light vest of silver rings. The emblem of the great eye sat on the left breast of the tunic He lifted his sword belt and fastened it comfortably about his waist, the red eye of the pommel glinting in the sunlight streaming though the tent opening, he then lifted the two red hilted throwing daggers and slipped them into his belt, finally he pulled back his black shoulder length hair and tailed it at the nape of his neck.

Ghurdan then knelt down, closed his eyes and placed his hands on the stone eye in the pommel of his sword, "What is you orders oh! Great one!" "If they refuse, kill them all!" the cold voice venomously hissed in his thoughts. " Yes, Master" he replied bowing his head slightly. "The child Jasara is your sole charge, no harm is to come to her!" the voice echoed in his mind. He was grinning as he opened his eyes and removed his hand from the stone, he got up and left the tent still grinning. "Zasfal!" he shouted, "Ready the men for battle while I'm gone" "yes captain " he nodded, Ghurdan watched him as he hurried towards the men and started to issue orders.

Ghurdan and Rahvin took their places either side of Dristi, with the five crew men following behind. "So," she spoke softly, "If you are all ready let us take our leave...." Ghurdan nodded and they moved off.

They walked confidently through the valley, Ghurdan taking in everything around him, they saw several riders in the distance. "scouts" he whispered to Dristi, nodding in their direction.

[ August 10, 2003: Message edited by: Nerindel ]

[piosenniel]

Nerindel's post

Zasfal

After the envoy had left, Zasfal had joined the crew and set about making ready for battle, he had no need to make any orders as the crew were well trained and had already started making preparations. He and three of the others went to the cart and removed the large oak trunk that had come from the Fire Spray. A cloud of dust rose up from the ground as they let it down with a heavy thud, Zasfal wiped the dust from the lock and taking a small brass key from around his neck he quickly opened the chest.

Zasfal pulled out four black bows, each one bearing a fiery red ship at the top end. The three men that had helped get the chest each took one of these bows, then Zasfal gave each of them a bottle of strong smelling oils and a handful of back arrows whose tips were covered with white rags. He took the fourth nocked one of the arrows and lovingly pulled back on it's sting, closing one eye he checked the balance and sight line, once satisfied he eased the string and removed the arrow.

He went back to the chest and removed two Flags, one black and one blue. He carefully unfurled the Blue one first and tied it to the top of one of the spears that lined the camp, as it waved in the breeze the Black ship, the Emblem of Umbar could visibly be seen against the blue background. He then carefully unfurled the other and tied it to a spear at the other end of the camp, The Great Red Eye winking as it swayed in the breeze. A cheer and a waving of swords went up from the crew at the sight of the flags that usually flew at the topmost mast on the Fire spray.

With this done Zasfal put the bow on his back tucked the arrows in his belt and set about sharpening his curved sword ready for battle and his chance to prove that he was more than just a sneak and a cut throat pirate.

[ August 13, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

And now the storm’s first whispers were upon them. Late in the afternoon, scouts had ridden in to say there were eight armed warriors approaching the camp. ‘Seven men,’ she heard one of the scouts say who had crept in close to the advancing party, ‘and one woman, dressed as a warrior beneath a great red and black cloak.’

‘Where were they when last you saw them?’ she heard Ishak ask his men. ‘Maybe two finger widths from us,’ came the reply, measuring two hours distance for the sun to move westward in its course.

‘Do the others of their company follow close behind them?’ asked Faruq. ‘No, no,’ came the assurance. ‘They come alone as if they own the very air they pass through,’ said one. ‘Arrogant, and over sure of themselves,’ said another, thumping the butt of his spear against the ground for emphasis. ‘They paid no heed to the boundary poles we set up at the opening to the valley, in fact, we watched as two of the warriors knocked one down and broke it, laughing all the while.’

The two tribes took in the information and made ready to receive the advancing group. ‘They will present their demands,’ Faruq said, his eyes sweeping to the west, ‘and we will listen closely to them. Then we will send them slinking back to their Mistress with our reply.’

Jamílah dressed in the long brown skirt with cream colored stripes and white blouse of the Bush Lizard clan. A bright blue sash was wrapped about her waist, and round her neck she placed the copper chain of running lizards that held the silver medallion with the image of the Great Tree etched on it. On her wrists were her many silvered bracelets, some with tiny bells, and they clinked and tinkled as she moved, shimmering in the afternoon sun as she walked to meet the other Elders, throwing out their light and sound as she passed.

[piosenniel]

Aylwen's post

Jasara watched as the envoy left the premises of the encampment, knowing exactly how they would fare against the elders. The girl smirked and bit her lip, turning back to face the young before her. They were all bunched up in one group on the edge of the Eye’s camp, preparing their weapons for the inevitable skirmish that would occur. There was nothing anyone could do to save the situation and turn it into some negotiation, and Jasara knew this from her years living with the elders. They would be stubborn, and they would refuse.

“I heard they tie people to that cart by the wrists and let them starve if they disobey orders,” Jasara could overhear Rijal speaking fretfully to Najah. Jasara had found espionage use in the boy before the real troubles with the elders had began, but now it was beyond her why Rijal was still alive. They should have killed him with the other young and he should have been left hanging upon the tree with the rest of them. Rijal was lucky that Nasir was willing to stand up for him.

“We should have thought of that sooner. I would have enjoyed carrying out such punishment,” Najah replied, grinning wickedly. Najah was pulling out weapon after weapon from her pack, and it seemed that there was no end to the amount of blades she carried when Rijal began dropping the ones Najah had handed to him. Of course Najah would have enjoyed such a clever punishment, but then again there probably wouldn’t be a chance for that if the young and the Eye failed against the elders.

You will not fail. The Eye is with you.

Jasara’s lips turned upward in the slightest of smiles when she recognized the chilling voice. Jasara no longer feared it as she once had. It was with her always, and Jasara had come to enjoy its advice and help. When it told her something, she believed it. Jasara knew the Eye would never lead her astray. Jasara continued to meander throughout the crowds of young, and came to sit next to Uri and across from Nasir. Both were preparing their weapons and readying themselves for battle.

“Here. You almost left this at the last camp. You need to take better care of your weapons,” Nasir grumbled as he handed Jasara a long, curved knife. Jasara rolled her eyes at Nasir and snatched the knife, running her left index finger along its sharpened edge. Jasara smiled at the vision suddenly sent to her by the Eye: the blood of an elder dripping from the blade, and a momentary flash of a crumpled old body just between her and Nasir upon the ground.

“So what are the odds here? How many of us are going to be left, do you think?” Nasir questioned as he stood and began to practice with his sword.

“You of all people won’t need to be worrying about that, trust me,” Jasara murmured lowly, with a knowing look in her dark eyes. Nasir would not be around to see who survived. At least, he would not be among them. Nasir lifted a brow and stopped his practice with worry glistening in his eyes slightly. “Najah, Uri, Khasia, and me. Most of the leaders, no?”

Uri’s eyes lit with amusement as he looked at the suddenly anxious Nasir. Uri chuckled softly before taking his leave to find Najah to arrange a last minute practice for the children if there was time. Jasara continued to fiddle with her knife under the hot sun, feeling just a little sorry for Nasir and whoever else would not live to see another day. Then she shrugged off the notion and left Nasir to go find Khasia.

[ August 13, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

The main body of warriors was pulled from the camp, hidden from the prying eyes of those who approached. Left to greet the eight who came were the Elders of the Baobab tribe and seven of their warriors. Three who knelt on one knee before the Elders in their ceremonial garb, and four who stood just behind them. To their left were the mounted Painted Sands warriors accompanying the representatives of their clans.

Jamílah stood just to the right of Faruq as the small group approached. Her eyes were drawn to the woman who seemed to lead them. A woman of some power, she thought. The same height as herself, she noted. Slender, like a reed. And like a reed, bendable when the strong wind blows, not breakable. This one would bear watching, she nodded to herself. The men with her were typical warriors she thought, of the sort that are bought for a price. Their eyes were cold and hard, and the long rays of the westering sun lit their hands with blood red tints where it shone on them.

What the woman spoke was not as important to Jamílah as was the manner in which it was spoken. ‘Honey on the lips cannot hide the rotten heart within.’ The old saying came to her mind more than once as the woman told of the glories of the Eye and the rewards for service. And yet, behind the silken words lay the steeled threat of destruction. ‘Better to be slain,’ Jamílah murmured to herself, as she watched the long-haired woman weave her web of words, ‘than to die piece by piece under the tutelage of the Eye.’

She looked closely into the woman’s eyes when she glanced her way. A dark sullen fire burned there that brought no warmth to the spirit. Much like the eyes of the young who had been drawn away by the promises of this false master. Dead spirits . . . ghosts . . . husks of men whose life had been consumed.

There was silence from the listeners when the woman finished with her speech. Then, the rustling of a slight breeze could be heard through the tall grass. The tribesmen of the painted Sands drew back a little, the sound of their low voices drifting in the air, just on the edge of perception. The woman, a cold smile, on her lips, cocked her head as if she were listening.

The Elders of the Baobab only looked at the priestess, and turning slightly to nod at Faruq for a brief moment, brought their gazes once more to bear on her.

‘Your foul master has already taken much of our precious treasure,’ he said, stepping forward, the Speaker’s stick clasped firmly in his hands. ‘We will not give him more.’

‘There is no need for us to consider your terms . . . your demands. We reject them utterly.’

‘Be gone, dark, faithless spirit. Your accursed message is given and death is near you. Return to your slave-master! Let him listen to your words. We will listen no more.’

There came a bristling of spears and the rattling of swords as the men who accompanied the priestess grew angry at the words spoken to her. But the warriors of the tribe now stood tall about the Elders. And the mounted warriors of the Painted Sands moved forward, blades drawn, their faces filled with a fell light, their eyes deadly.

Then fear, or a wiser caution, overcame their wrath and they turned in haste making their way back to where Sevora, and the Eye, awaited them.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

His face was grim when returned to the camp. Husam and a party of Baobab had tracked the priestess and her group until they’d left the arms of hills that held the valley. He nodded to Nasr and Jamílah as they ran to meet him, and after a few words, they walked with him to Faruq’s tent. A number of men were meeting with Faruq, leaders of various warrior groupings from both the Baobab and the Painted Sands. They turned as he entered, noting his air of disquiet, and bade him speak.

‘One of the trackers,’ he said. ‘Young Khaliq, the one who saw the warrior of the Eye throw down the boundary pole and laugh . . . he came close enough to hear them talking when they paused. He heard that man boast that they would crush us like so much dirt beneath their boot heels.’ He paused, drawing a great breath in to collect himself, warding off with a shake of his head the hand that Nasr placed on his shoulder in comfort. ‘We could not get to him in time. His anger took him and he rushed down upon the ignorant, heartless man, killing him with his spear.’

There was a collective gasp as the weight of this action sank in.

‘We could not get to him,’ he said again, his voice carrying over the rising storm of words that had begun. ‘They cut him down with their swords, and killed him savagely as he lay on the ground at their feet. And even the woman laughed as if it were mere sport as she ordered them away from their game and back to their journey.’

[Durelin]

Click click thud click Sevora's fingers fell one by one, her fingernails tapping on the arm of her chair on all but one finger. How long had she been sitting here, staring at the brown canvas of her tent rippling against the wind outside? Staring at nothing; she had never been so distracted before! She was letting too much get beneath her skin, causing herself to think about everything in a worried way. And she knew why. With a strong shake of her head she stood, moving around her small table toward the tent flap. Sevora squinted in the sun, adjusting to the bright light. Surveying the camp around her, it looked busy, but Sevora knew it was all for show. They were doing nothing, twiddling their thumbs, awaiting the return of Dristi's envoy. Dristi's envoy! O, how that stung! Suddenly she realized someone was watching her, and her gaze fell onto the old tribesmen, Thorgom. Now there was a strange man, and quite unpredictable…in some respects.

"And what do you wish of me, Thorgom?"

"You are making a mistake."

"Am I?" the words were an icy whisper.

"They will never join you."

"We will know soon enough. Will we not, old man?"

"You will not like what you hear."

Sevora let out a barking laugh, harsh and grating with anger. "I have grown accustomed to that, my friend."

"You should be preparing for battle, now."

"We will if we must."

"Then you will be soon enough. Will you not?"

The priestess smiled at Thorgom. The man was mocking her. Well, he was making a foolish attempt at it.

"You amuse me, Thorgom. For that reason, I listen to you now." Her grin widened at the man's own dark smile.

"I am glad that the mighty priestess finds enjoyment in speaking with me. But, I must say that I grow tired of bandying words with a dull-minded fool."

Sevora's smile became tighter and tighter, more and more forced. "Ah, you are quite exciting. May I ask why you think so of me?"

"Yes, you may. You are blind, Sevora."

The smile was gone. "You will not address me in that way."

"You are blind. You will fail your Master to the destruction of us all." The man said the word 'Master' with such contempt that Sevora twisted her mouth in disgust, holding back a snarl.

"Your attempt to speak in words of meaning makes you seem all the more foolish."

"My words have much meaning, dear."

This time, Sevora did snarl, and she took slow steps up to him. "My words have their own meaning, too," she said, grinning at him once again. "But so do many things I do." Reaching out, Sevora grabbed Thorgom by the face, pinching her fingernails into his skin to draw blood. Then she drew down her four fingers on each side, leaving four bloody slashes on the left side, three on the right. Sevora opened her mouth to call Rahvin, but stopped, remembering he was keeping an eye on Dristi's envoy. She snarled again. This time when she opened her mouth, she called over two men of Ghurdan's crew. "He is in need of more punishment, I'm afraid. Tie him to the cart." The men bowed to Sevora, murmuring variations of 'Yes, Mistress.' They gave Thorgom nasty smiles, dragging him bodily away, using much more force than was necessary. Sevora smiled too, glad that she had picked out men apt for the job. She decided to take a walk around the camp, looking as if she was inspecting the workings of it, but she could not get Thorgom's voice out of her head. You are blind. You will fail your Master to the destruction of us all.

[ August 20, 2003: Message edited by: Durelin ]

[piosenniel]

Nerindel's post

Ghurdan barely registered Dristi's words, he was looking at the camp before him, which the night before had been populated with much more than what was before them now. Very clever, hiding their numbers and strength all be it to late! he thought to himself, glad that he had persuaded Sevora to let him scout the camp the night before.

Ghurdan then looked over the tribes elders and the warriors that were there to protect them, The mounted warriors all wore head scarf's so only their eyes showed, Ghurdan saw the burn of contempt in their eyes, as they listened to Dristi's words. He could see that they were all well armed and some of them wore bows, something that he knew they did not have enough of. He then thought of the trunk that he knew Zasfal would have already opened. Ghurdan had only four Archers among his crew but all of them had keen eyes and rarely missed their mark.

'There is no need for us to consider your terms . . . your demands. We reject them utterly.'

'Be gone, dark, faithless spirit. Your accursed message is given and death is near you.

Return to your slave-master! Let him listen to your words. We will listen no more.'

Ghurdan heard one of their leaders say, There came a bristling of spears and the rattling of swords as his men grew angry at the words spoken to the priestess. Ghurdan's eyes burned with silent rage at their stupidity. As the warriors of the tribe stood tall about the Elders and the mounted warriors of the Painted Sands moved forward, blades drawn, their faces filled with a fell light, their eyes deadly, Ghurdan raised his hand to silence his men then with a final evil glare at his new enemies he retreated with the others.

As they marched back through the valley he felt that they were being watched, he laughed out loud,Dristi might be right! he thought to himself. "They are smart" he said between laughs. "Yes, keeping their true numbers from us, was a wise move" Dristi laughed sardonically, "And they still watch us" Rahvin put in looking behind him.

"We will crush them like so much dirt beneath our boot heels." one of Ghurdans men scoffed and the other four men laughed at his words, but suddenly from out of no where one of the tribal warriors came rushing towards them. His eyes burning with rage he buried his spear into the heart of the man who had just spoken, Ghurdan instinctively unsheathed his sword and with both hands on the hilt he cut the warrior down, he did not deliver a second blow as his men recovered from their initial surprise now took care of the infidel.

Ghurdan and Rahvin with swords in hand scanned the valley for others that may try to ambush them as Dristi and the others enjoyed their kill. Satisfied that no other attacker were present they moved out, quickening their pace back to the camp.

[ August 26, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Ealasaid's post

Ahmad and Adhem, both with their faces concealed behind their head shawls but for the eyes, rode among the mounted escort for the Painted Sand elders as they went to meet the priestess and her soldiers. Faruq of the Baobab tribe, it had been decided, was to do the talking for the combined tribes, but the Painted Sand elders, Ishak bin Ishak at their front, stood beside him, their faces fully revealed. They wished the Priestess to see who it was that rejected her and the deceit and death offered to them by service to her and the Eye. The warriors’ faces did not need to be seen. That they were warriors was enough.

Ahmad watched his father. He stood at Faruq’s right hand, his sword drawn, its point buried in the sand at his feet. It looked like a resting stance, but Ahmad knew that if a single move was made by the any of the priestess’ men toward Faruq, the blade would flash out like lightning. Ishak’s face remained imperturbable as Faruq and the priestess exchanged words. Ahmad held his own sword drawn and resting, idly it seemed, across the front of his saddle, yet the muscles of his forearm clinched every time the priestess spoke. Her voice was the sound of a corpse‘s breath, and her promises, the promises of death. He had to fight the temptation to spur his horse forward into the lot of them, to smite her down as she spoke, but he knew by the look of the large, black-haired warrior to her right, that he would never have made it so far. He would have been sliced in two. Just as his father was braced to protect Faruq, this man was there to guard the priestess.

His time would come. Ahmad cut quick glance at Adhem, but Adhem’s eyes were fixed on the priestess’ face with a look of black hatred. He wondered if Adhem had been having the same thought about charging the priestess as he had had. He also wondered if that might not have been the work of the Eye, goading them all into foolish action. Adhem’s horse danced a step forward. Ahmad pulled up on the reins of his own mount. He would not charge unless his father gave the signal. Ishak remained still as a stone monolith, his sword gleaming in the bright sunlight.

“Return to your slave-master!” ordered Faruq. “Let him listen to your words. We will listen no more.”

The warrior at the side of the priestess raised his hand to silence the rattling of swords that rose behind him at the sound of Faruq’s words. Ahmad and the other mounted warriors moved slowly forward, their swords at the ready, waiting only for the sign from Ishak, who remained motionless and silent. There was a tense moment in which the two sides opposed each other, each silently daring the other to strike the first blow. Then, the moment passed.

The priestess and her soldiers turned to depart. A party of Baobab hunters that included Husam trailed the group out of the valley, followed at a distance by Ahmad and a host of five horsemen. Ahmad felt a chill race down his spine as he saw the young Baobab tracker leap from his place of concealment and charge the departing group only to be brought down by a single blow from the black-haired warrior. It might have been himself or Adhem or any of them. He had a feeling they had all felt the same horrible impulse. Only this young man had not had the strength to resist it. Ahmad felt a darkness close around his heart as the soulless laughter of the priestess echoed across the valley to them as she watched her men desecrate the tribesman’s body with their spears. Frowning, Ahmad nudged his horse forward with his heels. The time for vengeance was coming.

They followed the departing group only as far as the mouth of the valley, then turned back toward the camp of the combined tribes. The ride back was swift and silent but for the pounding of the horses‘ hooves in the dust.

[ August 16, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Late night of the day of the envoy’s arrival


‘That was a dangerous crossing for you! Come in! Come in!’ Husam pulled the black clad man into the tent, two large dark shadows crowding their way in behind him.

‘Not so dangerous,’ said Bemah, unwrapping the dark scarf that hid all but his eyes. ‘The hounds were with me, and they sniffed the presence of the Eye’s men out. We gave them wide berth.’ He sat down on the mat in the middle of the tent, his dogs resting at the entryway. ‘We saw the army as it passed through our lands. Rough looking men. He flashed his hands, fingers spread out, four times. ‘That many for the warriors. And we saw the young ones, too. Baobab and Painted Sands – just as many.’ He shook his head. ‘Bad men, well armed.’

There was still some tea left in the copper kettle. Nasr poured the three of them a small cup of the strong beverage. ‘We drove our flocks out to the far, summer pasture and the women and children went with them, along with Malik’s two sons and five of the dogs. We did not want the army anywhere near them.’

Husam clapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘Surely you did not come to give us news of the dark army.’ He looked his friend in the eye. Bemah laughed, throwing his hands in the air as if he had been found out. ‘You know we like to insure our investments.’ His face creased into a wide smile and his eyes glimmered in the soft light of the little lantern. ‘I want to make sure there is someone to receive the goats and I intend to collect the rest of the agreed on price.’ He turned and winked at Nasr, and all three broke into soft laughter, a welcome sound after a grim evening.

The laughter died down, and Husam grew thoughtful. Turning to Nasr he said, ‘Go wake Faruq, and tell him to meet us at Ishak’s tent. They should know what Bemah has told us. We’ll meet you there.’

Nasr slipped out between the two dogs and went quickly toward Faruq’s tent. Husam, his hand resting on Bemah’s shoulder walked with him to where the Painted Sands’ leader had his tent. ‘Tell me,’ he said quietly, the two dogs loping behind them, ‘did you come alone . . .’

[Lyra Greenleaf]

During the dead of night the desert was cold, and quiet. Only the muted sounds of the camp reached Sammael's ears- lowered voices, shuffling steps and nearer the tossing of the sleeping Damodred. Sammael couldn't sleep. There was a feeling at the pit of his stomach, not of fear but a weight like undigested food.

It wasn't a feeling he'd ever had before and it was uncomfortable. It wasn't that he wasn't looking forward to fighting- on the contrary a steady feeling of frustration had been building since he began this journey, and finally doing battle might finally relieve it. He was conscious of a cold ball of anger inside that needed dispersing.

It was very strange to feel so remote from his anger. Normally it was white hot and bubbled up like beserking in a battle, then drained away as quickly.

Restlessly Sammael threw off his coverings and stood, pacing in a half crouch the few steps of the tent. Briefly he considered waking the old man and moaning at him for a while, but common sense forbade it. He could sleep like the dead, could Damodred, and waking was not his best time.

From the noises outside the tent Sammael could hear that some of the men- villagers or Ghurdan's crew- were still awake, but Sammael could not fix his mind to join card games or drinking games any more than he could relax it enough to sleep. Pulling back the tent flaps he stuck his head through, breathing the flat desert air.
How I will rejoice to leave here, he thought grimly gazing into endless miles of blackness. No towns, no villages, no inns, no people except heathen savages.

With a grunt he decided to give up thoughts of rest for the time being and resort to something he hadn't done for years- mindless runnning for an hour or more. In the morningthings would be different.

[Nerindel]

It was late when the Envoy returned, Ghurdan dismissed his men and followed Dristi and Rahvin to Sevora's tent. She was standing outside waiting for their return, as they walked towards her, Ghurdan could see that she was not looking at them but into the endless darkness of the desert. She turned to them a twisted smile playing on her lips.

"Eight I sent out, but only seven now returns, What happened?" she snapped her smile dissipating into an angry scowl.

"The infidels refused to see the true path!" Dristi seethed

"On our return we were attacked. We killed the foolish infidel, but not before he killed one of our men." Ghurdan informed her.

Dristi and Rahvin told Sevora all that was said and then the three of them gave detailed descriptions of the valley, the elders and the warriors that they saw, "They kept their main forces hidden from us and they followed us as far as the mouth of the valley, but they did not come beyond!" Ghurdan continued, his voice even and unconcerned.

"It is late! rest the men and at first light we will hold councils of our own" Sevora finally said after some thought. Ghurdan realising that this was a dismissal , bowed slightly and went to find Zasfal.

He found the younger man sat by the fire with a few of the crew and some of the new warriors, Ghurdan was pleased to see that he had indeed already taken out the bows. He stood for a minute watching Zasfal, there was a battle ready gleam in his eyes as he polished the black arc of his bow. Ghurdan thought about how Zasfal had come to be part of his crew, he had bought him from a slave trader in Umbar, with the intent of training the young lad to be his heir, but the young mans deceitful and sneaky nature had lead to the crews dislike and distrust of him, He would have to prove himself well in battle if he hoped to gain any respect or trust from the crew." "Are we to fight!" one of the crew men nearby asked him eagerly, pulling him violently from his thoughts. "Yes!" he grinned feverantly, then he went to sit next to Zasfal.

"Are the men ready!" Ghurdan asked nonchalantly, "Yes! I think they have been ready since we left Umbar " Zasfal laughed, Ghurdan nodded his agreement to the young mans statement, then stared thoughtfully into the flames of the camp fire, after a moment of silence Zasfal turned to Ghurdan "You have a plan, I assume?" he asked, Ghurdan chuckled and looked at his first mate "Yes, indeed I do my young friend, but I wish to keep them until council, needless to say that I see you and your archers playing a prominent roll!"

"Friend??" Zasfal looked at Ghurdan wondering what he meant by that, he had never seen them as such, but now when he thought on it the sea captain was the one who always got him out of trouble, gave him task that would allow him to prove himself and on occasion even stuck up for him, albeit in a cold and ruthless way. Ghurdan seeing the way that Zasfal was now looking at him, scowled and rose to leave, "come to Sevora's tent at first light" he spat before stomping away into the darkness.

Zasfal watched Ghurdan disappear into the night, then began to curse himself, realising that if he had only followed Ghurdans advice from the beginning, it would be likely that the sea captain would have willingly named him his heir. The irony stung like a sharp blade in his chest. Sighing he got up and went back to his own tent to get some much needed rest.

As Ghurdan stomped back towards his tent he saw that Thorgom was bound to the back of the Cart, his sour mood lifted as the tribesman looked his way, "What are you looking at!" Thorgom spat viciously, but Ghurdan just shook with cold heartless laughter and moved on. He had just reached his tent when he saw Sammael poking his head from his, seeing as the man was awake he went over and told him that his and Damodred's presence would be required at council, first thing in the morning in Sevora's tent. "Could you tell Essenia that her presence will also be required?" Ghurdan asked with a slight mischievous grin playing on his lips. He then gave Sammael a curt nod and returned to his tent.

Inside he unsheathed his sword and began practising, offensive and defensive strokes and the many feints he had masters over the years, exhausted he re-sheathed his sword and lay down on his bed roll, he looked up at the blank canvas of his tent thinking on strategies and was just about asleep, when he heard a commotion outside.........

[ August 14, 2003: Message edited by: Nerindel ]

[Ealasaid]

Having managed to elude the watchful eyes of his cousins for most of the afternoon, Yusef watched as the two of them rode away to join the escort that would accompany the Painted Sand elders to the meeting with the priestess' envoy.

Sighing with relief, Yusef closed his hand around the pouch that held the red stone. It was now or never. Taking his horse by the reins he led it to a spot well outside and to the west of the combined camp, where he left it until he could complete his last preparations. From there, he crept back into the camp and on to the tent of Ishak bin Ishak. He moved toward the tent nonchalantly, a cover story ready on his tongue should anyone approach him or ask him what he was about. He would tell them that he had hoped to speak with his uncle before the meeting with the Priestess that there was something of great consequence that he must impart. But no one saw him. Yusef was able to slip into the tent unseen. Most of the camp had already been deserted.

Once inside Ishak‘s tent, Yusef moved directly to the chieftain’s saddle. He only worked for a moment, then, satisfied, edged out of the tent and back to where his horse waited in the hollow west of the camp. Mounting quickly, he rode south for a ways before turning west again and finally north. He knew that many of the Baobabs and some of his own tribesmen were concealed amongst the slopes and crevices of the valley. Escaping them would be the real challenge. Following a preplanned route, he skirted the hollows where he knew the other tribesmen to be concealed, eventually reaching the northern end of the valley. There he waited just outside the boundaries of the valley until the priestess and her men passed him on their return journey to their own encampment. Allowing them to get what he considered a safe distance ahead of him, Yusef fell into pace behind them. He would follow them to their camp. There he would see the priestess and - his smile broadened - there he would find his fortune.

As the fires of the priestess’ camp came into view, Yusef slowed his pace, allowing himself to fall well behind the progress of the returning envoy. Dismounting, he decided to wait awhile. He needed to give them time enough to get back to their tents and make their reports to the priestess. When he thought enough time had passed, he remounted and rode boldly into the priestess’ camp. A cry went up from the sentries and Yusef found himself instantly surrounded by an angry mob brandishing spears and swords. Archers appeared in a few of the tent mouths, arrows already nocked to their bows. Rough hands dragged him from his saddle.

[ August 16, 2003: Message edited by: Ealasaid ]

[piosenniel]

‘Tell me,’ Husam said quietly, the two dogs loping behind them, ‘did you come alone . . .’

Bemah whistled softly to the dogs walking behind with Nasr. They trotted up, one to each side, their great heads looking up at him expectantly. His hands went down to scratch their ears, and they fell in beside him as he walked along, their stride matching his.

‘Nay. We’ve not come alone. The others are out there, keeping watch. Same as we do for our flocks. Looking out for any beasts two legged or four who dare come after them.’

They reached the flap to Faruq’s tent, and Husam called in to him. ‘Come in, come in,’ came the older man’s voice. Ishak was there also drinking tea with him, and it was obvious from the way small rocks were arranged on a rug placed between them, that they had been going over some strategy for the defense of the two tribes. There were several others there with them, a mixture of warriors who would take the lead against the foe.

Silence fell on the gathered group when Bemah entered behind Husam, along with his two large dogs. Their dark eyes watched his every move and one of the warriors bent quickly over the rug, scattering the pattern of the stones. Husam took great pains to assure them that Bemah was no spy caught sneaking about the camp, but had come a good distance to bring news of the Army of the Eye, and to offer his assistance.

It was Ishak who first offered the villager a cup of tea then bade him sit down with them. The dogs settled in near the opening of the tent where the night breezes would bring them any passing scents - their heads resting on their paws, their eyes watchful of the men in the room. Bemah told of how he and his boys had hidden along the path the Army took from their outlying farms to the valley. They had counted the number of them and the types of weapons they had. And they had marked the leaders of the groups of men as they passed. They are not an overwhelming number for such a combined force as you have, but they are well armed. And many of them seem to be the sort who do not care if they should live or die. But only are drawn toward danger and bloodshed for the sake of the kill itself.

‘I think, having seen them,’ he said quietly to the hushed room, ‘they would not care which side they fought on. Only give them a full belly, ale, and somewhere to sleep, and that will be enough until the bloodshed begins. ‘There is no loyalty in them, except for what is paid for in coin.

It was hard for the tribesmen to understand this attitude. Tied to a deep faith in the way the world unfolded for them; tied to their families and clans and tribes; and even tied to the land and streams that gave them life they could not fathom how a man’s pride could be bought for the promise of gold.

Bemah picked up the stones that had been scattered at his entrance and gave them to Ishak and Faruq. ‘We have come to aid you as we can,’ he said, bidding them show him how they would meet the challenge of the Eye. He picked up a handful of stones for himself, watching where they positioned theirs. When the two tribal leaders were satisfied they had placed them in strategic places, Bemah bent over them and parceled out his few stones, some large and some small, but greater in number. ‘These are the men who have come with me and these, their dogs. ‘Here, here, and here is where we are right now,’ he pointed out, his fingers moving from stone to stone. ‘We will be best used for stealthier work than head-on battle. It is how we hunt the beasts that inflict themselves on our herds. Coming upon them when it is least expected, dividing them, drawing them away from their intended goal.’

Ishak’s eyes glinted at the possibilities. His own warriors would be on horse, the Baobab would be afoot. This small band could tip the favor of the gods their way. He looked up, in time to catch Faruq’s pleased half smile as he surveyed the stones. His eyes caught those of the Baobab leader and he nodded at him.

‘We are glad you will be by our side, so to speak, in this, Bemah,’ he said, offering the other man another cup of steaming tea. ‘Yes, fortunate, indeed, are we to have such friends as you,’ added Faruq. ‘It brings me some measure of hope in these grim days . . .’

[ August 26, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Arien]

"The infidels refused to see the true path!" she spat as she took her place next to Sevora. She slouched in to the large wooden chair cushioned with various pillows and such. She placed her right elbow on the arm of the chair and rested her chin on her fist, her hair swung covering the right side of her face. She looked towards the others through her hair. This did not surprise Dristi one bit, she had never really expected the elders to concur to their wishes , but still this meant a fight. A fight where they would escape, just.

"On our return we were attacked. We killed the foolish infidel, but not before he killed one of our men." Ghurdan informed Sevora, answering her earlier question. Dristi sighed and shook her head, if the elders knew any better they would stop this stupidity and face up to their destiny, but instead they would rather die. Dristi could not understand it, she could not bring herself to comprehend it. She, Ghurdan and Rahvin told Sevora of all that they had encountered.

“They kept their main forces hidden from us and they followed us as far as the mouth of the valley, but they did not come beyond!" Ghurdan spoke up, Sevora nodded her face held no expression save for the twisted smile that started to form at the corners of her mouth, and she laugh slightly. Dristi rolled her eyes, she hated when Sevora did that, laughing for no apparent reason. Maybe she was mad, or truly evil. Sevora sat silent again and then she eventually dismissed them.

"It is late! Rest the men and at first light we will hold councils of our own" Ghurdan and Rahvin left the tent, leaving the two priestesses alone together. At first it was silent and the two just simply stared into the fire at the centre of the tent. Dristi thought of the day to come, if they were to fight the would loose many, but so would the other side. And Dristi was [I]almost[I] certain that The army of The Eye would prevail, that is only if the Elders had no more support, and the numbers were calculated correctly……… Dristi’s mind buzzed with anticipation for the next day.

“We will triumph…..?”

“What?” Dristi said, suddenly jolted from her trail of thought by Sevora’s latest comment. “oh… I have told you…just…”

“Just…” Sevora murmured to herself. She repeated it a couple of times and then sat up in her seat. “well then I must rest now….” Dristi nodded and left the tent. She made her way towards her own and entered it to find a medium sized fire burning, waiting for her. She smiled, it was always cold during the night and unlucky souls had frozen to death out in the deserts of this world. She warmed her self and placed her weapons from her person on the floor and lay down on the sheets that she had lain out earlier. In her mind she went over various manoeuvres and combinations in her head. Slowly she found her self drifting off to sleep. Till she was woken up by the noise from the camp.

[Nerindel]

Ghurdan fumed as he got up, he lifted his sword and opened the flaps to see what was going on. He saw a ring of armed men on the edge of the camp. Fastening his sword belt about his waist he strode over to the angry mob. "What is going on here!" he bellowed, push those in front of him out of his way.

One of his crew a swarthy looking man, pushed Yusef forward. Ghurdan drew his sword and held it dangerously close to the mans throat, "Speak quickly! What is your name and what are you doing here!" he commanded. "My name is Yusef al Rahman of the painted sands tribe and I wish to speak with your priestess" the man answered evenly. Ghurdan eyed him suspiciously, he slowly lowered his sword. "Wait here!" he ordered, turning to go to Sevora's tent, "I strongly suggest you don't move" he said turning back and indicating the archers who now had their arrows fixed on him.

Ghurdan took no notice of the two men that saluted him as the entered Sevora's tent, Rahvin glared at him as he entered unbidden, "Sevora" he bowed," One of the heathens is outside wishing an audience" he said shortly. "Then bade him enter, it is not polite to keep our guests waiting" she grinned, unspoken interest gleaming in her dark eyes. Ghurdan nodded curtly and went back to the tribes man. "It seems the priestess is also interest in what brings you to our little camp and has granted you an audience at once." he said disdain dripping from his every word. He dismissed the two men that held Yusef and pushed him roughly forwards toward Sevora's tent.

Sevora now stood Rahvin perched to her right as always. Ghurdan kept his place just behind Yusef, his eyes burning with distrust for the tribes man. Yusef bowed low "My name is Yusef al Rahman of the tribe of the painted sands" he introduced himself to the others, "Well Yusef of the painted sands what brings you to the camp of your enemy" Sevora pointedly asked him. "For many years now the elders have failed to acknowledge the need for change, stubborn and set in their ways, they have oppressed the idea's of our young, I do not hold with these beliefs and see the great lord as the bringer of this much needed change! therefore I offer my services willingly to the great eye" he finished making another sweeping low bow. Ghurdan surpressed a sneer as the man's words filled him with a strong feeling of contempt and loathing.

"And what do you have to offer our Great Lord" Sevora hissed, the same distrust Ghurdan felt reflected in her eyes. "I am the nephew of Ishak bin Ishak, the leader of the painted sands and as such I am in a position to offer much," he grinned with a wicked gleam in his eyes,. 'Ha! there it was!' Ghurdan thought, 'as nephew he would never hold any power, but if the elders were disposed of... a new leader would be needed, smart!' Ghurdan grinned suddenly impressed by the mans way of thinking. As he looked up he saw a smile playing on the lips of the Priestess, Surely she was not yet taken in by this mans words, he had yet to offer anything useful. "Who are your leaders and what are their warriors numbers!" he barked at Yusef drawing seething looks from the others. he already knew the latter and thought to trap the young man into revealing himself as the spy that Ghurdan believed he was.

But he was denied, Yusef merely nodded, as he began to describe the elders and the numbers of warriors each tribe held. Ghurdan did not miss that each time the conversation swayed towards deployment or strategies Yusef became cagey and revealed very little. But as he looked towards Sevora he could see that she seemed satisfied, even pleased by the mans apparent desire to aid them in destroying his kinsmen. "And what is it that you really what!" Ghurdan spat in his ear. "I do not know what you imply but as I said I wish only to serve the eye, it was as Yusef turned to face him that he notice the dark red stone that he palmed in his hand, Ghurdans rage finally took over as he grab the mans wrist holding it up to reveal the stone that matched the one in he sword, the one that was given to him for service render to the all powerful eye! "Where did you get this!" Ghurdan yelled the rage bubbling within, "It is mine Yusef protested, throwing a pleading glance to Sevora. 'So, you think to replace me with this treacherous piece of desert scum I think not!!!' he screamed in his head and he plunged his still drawn knife straight into Yusefs heart, "You shall not have what is rightfully mine!" he seethed as the stunned Yusef fell to the ground, unaware of what had just transpired.

A cold laughter filled Ghurdans mind and his voice echoed it, as he turned to face the livid face of Sevora, Rahvin had instantly drawn his sword and now pointed it a Ghurdans chest, "You don't know" he laughed coldly at her, she made to slap him across the face for his impudence but he grabbed her wrist and prevented her blow from making contact, "He was not worthy his usefulness had ended, he served himself, not the Eye!" he hissed pulling her closer. "Let go, Ghurdan!" Rahvin Threatened pushing his blade onto the sea captains chest so that a small trickle of blood appeared. Ghurdan looked at Rahvin. "I will not be punished for following the dark lords orders." he lied convincingly, calm returning to his voice, he pushed Sevora away and waited for her to order Rahvin to stand down, "we have a battle to prepare for!" he reminded her as she hesitated.

_____________________________________________

Durelin's post

"We have a battle to prepare for!"

Who did this man think he was? Yes, he was blessed, but it gave him no right to even touch her. Sevora still stood higher than him, and she...she had been blessed. Her teeth ground as she collected herself, staring at the ground. After a moment, she placed a hand on Rahvin's arm. He took a step back, but did not relax, nor take his hand of his sword hilt. Staring at the ground for a few more moments, Sevora slowly drew in breath, then let it out, finding it a very calming thing. She thought about nothing in particular, but jumped from happy memory to happy memory, stopping at Dristi's punishment. Now she was able to smile. Looking up at Ghurdan, she grinned at him, mocking warmness and kindness, but their was happiness upon her lips if not in her eyes. She was defeated, she knew it well -- Ghurdan was blessed, Jasara was blessed, and she had been abandoned. But, she had just won two battles she had never won before. She had both controlled her rage...and she had accepted defeat. Defeat, of all things! It was something she had never been able to handle, and it had happened to her so few times. Besides, those few times had been so long ago, when she had just begun her life as a priestess to the Eye. And after she was blessed...she felt -- no, she knew that she could never be defeated. Then she was forgotten by her Master. Sevora did not understand it, but she accepted it. And that was an overwhelming victory for any of these people who now stood at least equal to her. They stood equal to her, and she would let them. Perhaps, after a time, she could let them stand above her. Yes, and then, when they thought...

"Indeed we do, my dear," she said almost cheerfully, taking a step toward Ghurdan to stand where he had pulled her only seconds before. "A very bloody battle, which you will enjoy, will you not?" Her hand moved forward to cup his chin in her hand, and Sevora received a pleasing flinch from him. "Please, darling, I wonder if you show more manners than that. You should be courteous toward a woman, should you not? You are quite an intelligent man, Ghurdan, and I know I do not need to instruct you in your etiquette." She paused for a moment, still beaming at him, but did not wait long enough for him to speak before continuing. "Now, after this interruption, we must all get as much sleep as we can. We have a busy day ahead of us. We rise early to give and hear wise counsel." She patted him slightly on the cheek, whispering "Good night," then she turned around and walked slowly back into the other side of her tent. It was divided into a sort of 'study' and sleeping quarters. Sitting on the ground, covered with finely woven rugs, Sevora began humming a tune. She remembered it from her early childhood and thought it might have been a lullaby, of all things. No, now she remembered: it was a song sung at marriages. She would have laughed if she hadn't been deep in thought.

…when they thought she was defeated, broken, ready to follow them humbly, then she would be in a wonderful position. The best position she could ever be in. Manipulation had always been among her greatest and most useful skills. Sevora could make sure they were not even aware of her manipulating; it was one of the ways she had worked her way up in the ranks of the Servants. Ghurdan would be one she would be able to manipulate. All she needed to do was shrewdly tell the High Priest that the man was blessed, and then he would rise in the ranks. She would bear his child if that were what it took to bring the man into her hands, while she remained invisible…low. And this Jasara, she would definitely be brought into the Order, and she would be an excellent one, for the most part. She would rise in the ranks just as Sevora herself did. But would she also be abandoned? For some reason, Sevora could not wish that upon the girl. No, woman. Young, but a woman. Perhaps it was because Jasara was so much like Sevora, in many ways, that the priestess actually liked the young woman. She could hardly be called an acquaintance, but there was a connection, and what Sevora knew of the tribeswoman…she was one to be respected. Perhaps she would not have to manipulate her. She did not wish to, at any rate. Perhaps she could be brought into her confidences, and Sevora could give her advice. Still, it seemed the woman thought much like Sevora. With luck and skill, they would get along well and, with Ghurdan's involuntary aid and perhaps Jasara's voluntary, Sevora would remain powerful. So many 'perhaps.'

Sevora looked up as Rahvin entered the 'bedroom' of the tent, looking down at her, showing as much emotion in his eyes as he ever had. He was concerned. "Why do you worry, Rahvin?"

"I-I just do not understand it, Sevora." The man sounded hesitant. He had never sounded hesitant.

"I do not either, Rahvin, most of it."

"Then why did you sound…happy."

"I have won several victories."

"Against…Ghurdan?" Rahvin filled the name with disgust, and Sevora smiled again.

"Yes. And I have just realized another," she said, almost excitedly, her smile growing. "He has shown me how tightly he holds on to his position. Too tightly, and the more power slips through his fingers because of it." Now Rahvin was smiling too. The man had changed so much in so little time. There was so much she did not understand. Sevora was surprised that realization had not effected her in the least. "Acceptance," she whispered, and Rahvin surprised her by nodding. Suddenly, words flew through her mind, almost too quickly for her to realize them. It was because, at them, her heart skipped a beat. You do not know! At first thought, it made her believe Ghurdan knew she had been…abandoned, but, after thought…she did not know. "You do not know," she said quietly, looking up at Rahvin again. "He said that."

"And you do not, do you?" he said quietly, sounding a bit sad and…was it sympathetic? The man was being compassionate!

"Do not soften at the coming of hardships, Rahvin. You soften."

"Forgive me, Sevora, but I--"

"Worry."

"Yes."

Sevora sighed heavily, then, arranging her bed made of various sheets and blankets, mostly woolen, and she lay down in her blood red robes. Rahvin only sat down, and Sevora could see his shadowed form on the edge of the tent long into the night.

[ August 20, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

Khasia sat near the edge of camp, holding a Haradrim short sword in her right hand. She looked at the weapon with pleasure. One of the Corsair soldiers had given it to her that afternoon, and after a few test swings, Khasia had found it much to her liking. She ran her fingertips over the curved and sharpened blade, pressing almost hard enough to draw blood, but not quite. The broadswords of the Baobab tribe had always been too heavy for her, and she hefted this one carefully, finding its balance just right for her slender arm. Oh, this blade would taste blood, and soon. Khasia smiled in the darkness.

The sun had fallen behind the horizon several hours ago, and the camp had stilled. Khasia sat alert on the side watching it settle into a vigilant calm. The red moon spoke of the blood the rising sun would bring, and Khasia was exhilarated. So much opportunity, so close she could nearly taste it, and the priestesses would lead them. Khasia closed her eyes reverently, picturing Dristi in her red and black robes, with the dramatic thorns slashing across her forehead. How would it feel to place those thorns on her own head? To feel that authority? To be touched by a dark god... Khasia shivered all over. She would follow those priestesses, follow them to their citadel and further, and then scratch and claw her way over them until she alone stood at the top, crowned with blood and wire. Power had come to her, and Khasia knew she would take it.

"Khasia..." Narisa's timid voice spoke from beside her. The girl's brown eyes snapped open, resting on the herbalist's face. Narisa pulled two long knives from a sheath at her side. Clumsy, the girl handed them to Khasia, an apologetic look on her face. "They need sharpening," she explained, holding the notched edge up to a patch of bronze moonlight for Khasia's inspection. Khasia accepted them resignedly, placing them on the ground beside her, a look of disgust twisting her features. This girl was hopeless.

"Why didn't you bring them before?" She questioned, her voice businesslike and angry. "The timid will die, Narisa." She could see the other girl's silhouette shaking. "I will sharpen them for you in the morning." She said, the edge in her voice growing more distinct. Her own long knife flashed out of its sheath and came to rest with the point an inch below Narisa's chin. "Go sleep now." She ordered. "You will need your full strength tomorrow, if you are to provide a proper distraction for the elders." Narisa blanched and turned away, her head hanging between her shoulder blades. She knew. Knew her life was over. All Khasia cared about was that she lived long enough to occupy some warrior's time so she, Khasia, could do her own work.

She gave her new sword another twirl, her white teeth sparkling in the greyness of the desert air. Who needed sleep when they had destiny? Who needed luck when they had strength? Her grin widened, but her eyes remained flat, emotionless. It had begun.

[ August 21, 2003: Message edited by: Sophia the Thunder Mistress ]

[Arien]

Dristi rolled over on to her back as she was woken up by raised voices from the camp. She rolled her eyes and yawned. It was probably another scuffle between those warriors that sat around the fire. She threw the cover from upon her and crawled to the tents door flap, she peered out through the small flap. Dristi could see Ghurdan out from his tent in a rage. She saw him draw his sword and put it to someone throat. Although she could not make out their features she laughed inside. Probably one of those stupid tribesmen. She watched as he was lead into Sevora’s tent. Dristi thought about going but she reassured herself that she would hear all about it in the morning. So she lay her head back down on the hard floor and slowly fell asleep.

~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Dristi woke before the sun rose, she opened her eyes slowly to find herself face to face with the roof of the tent. Dristi stretched her arms upwards and yawned. Ah! Today there would, without a doubt be a battle, excellent! She got up quickly and dressed in the same things she had worn the previous day, and made sure her weapons were with her. It was still somewhat cold outside and the embers of he fire quickly faded so she slung on her cloak and made her way to Sevora’s tent. Around the camp smoke rose from burnt out fires and the men were scattered in small huddles, some sleeping and others murmuring quietly to each other in the new morning silence. As Dristi arrived at the tent she could hear voices, good Sevora was already awake. She drew the tent flap and stepped in. The people in the tent turned round to see who the new visitor was.

“Dristi!” Sevora said, “how nice of you to join us…” She smiled sarcastically and motioned for Dristi to be seated on her chair. I’d cut that smile of her face right now! Dristi fumed. She was going to reply with a comeback but she noted that two of the young ones were present too, so instead Dristi nodded and made her way to it while the others in the tent continued.

“So…” Sevora started again.

“If you don’t mind me interrupting?” Dristi queried.

“If you must,” Sevora sighed.

“What was all the commotion about last night?”

“ That,” smiled Sevora, “ Dristi you missed a little visit from one of the tribes men.”

“And where is it now? We could use it…” Dristi said in thought.

“He,” said Ghurdan, “ Is dead.”

“Oh,” said Dristi a little shocked, “ I trust you got no information out of it then?”

“No Dristi nothing that we didn’t already know, now Ghurdan, are all your men ready to fight?” Sevora asked leaning back in her chair. Ghurdan nodded in reply.

“How shall I send them? In two groups or a full on hit?” Ghurdan questioned.

“Before we do anything we need position archers..” cut in Dristi.

“Is done,” said Ghurdan wearily, “They are positioned on the rocky out crops either side of the tribes camp.”

Well at least he isn’t an idiot, thought Dristi. Though she couldn’t wait for the fight, she felt like a little child, a little child who could hack a grown adult to pieces at any rate. She ran her hands along her blade that was now in her hand. Not long now…

[Durelin]

“Before we do anything we need position archers…”

"Is done."

Sevora let out her breath in a long sigh. Dristi just could not remain respected by Sevora for very long. Just when she gave the girl some credit, Dristi acted the fool. She came out and ask what had happened last night? Did she truly expect to receive a real answer? Sevora's eyes moved around the tent, glancing at each person sitting before her. Besides Ghurdan and Dristi, Jasara, Khashia, and Uri sat off to the side, and Sammael sat near the middle and close to nobody. It was strange how people came to automatically separate themselves. But it was plain and simple how these people came to purposefully and thoughtfully separate themselves. Sevora was interested in seeing if these separations would continue even when they were neck deep in blood. This battle was going to be interesting. The problem was, Sevora was no strategist. Ghurdan was. Or, it was just that he was blessed. The Eye aids a person in many ways. Ghurdan was needed to lead his crew, and he had done most of the strategizing, which, even to Sevora's untrained eyes and ears, actually seemed to be very little. Mainly Ghurdan was certain of victory. No one could resist the Eye. But these elder tribesmen had to the fullest extent, in Sevora's mind. So, it was more proper to say 'no one could resist the Eye and live.' Those words were truth itself.

"Jasara," she said suddenly, turning to the young tribeswoman. All the other conversation that Sevora had not been listening to ceased. "What do you think of this smidgen of strategy that Ghurdan here has…devised?" Sevora smiled at Ghurdan as she gestured to him, but then her eyes went back to Jasara. Still, she smiled. It felt good.

"It will work well. As it is simple, we cannot make a mistake. No one resists the Eye."

"And lives," Sevora finished with a wider grin. "I ask, though, how do we discern the whereabouts of our enemy? We plan to march, but if we do, I do not wish to enter the valley to find them at our rear, already beginning to attack, correct?"

Ghurdan nodded impatiently, like at a pupil who learns all too slowly. "Yes, we have dealt with that. Or, truly, we have decided how to deal with that. We will not be caught unawares, I promise you that."

There was a hint of using her name at the end of his speaking, but Sevora ignored it. "Yes, and how is it to be dealt with? I expect to know this plan. As Jasara said, it is simple, and so we will not have human error. But I must know the plan so that I may not error. And it should be easy to explain, as it is so effortless. Or is it not as effortless as you say?"

Ghurdan was silent for a moment, and Sevora expected he was collecting his thoughts. Yes, he should be circumspect about what he says to me… "It is as effortless as it appears to be. But, there can still be mistakes. There most likely will not be, but I warn you not to be…overly disappointed." He smiled slightly at that, but only for a second, and his face was cold and blank when he continued. "We will send out scouts, as we always do," he said a bit icily, seemingly offended. Perhaps he was sick of scouts, but did he just want to barge in there unawares?

"Good," Sevora said simply. "We move when the sun reaches its height." Let the battle end in darkness!

[ August 21, 2003: Message edited by: Durelin ]

[Durelin]

Nerindel's post

Zasfal had woken early, before even the sun had risen above the horizon. He was restless so he strapped on his weapons and picked up his bow and went to take a walk in the cool breezes before the sun rose. But before he had reached the flap of his tent, Ghurdan barged in the three other archers in tow. "You will leave at once and take up positions to the east and west of the infidels camp" Ghurdan ordered, not giving the young man a chance to protest the intrusion. "But there is only four of us" he said recovering from the initial shock of the request and not liking the odds if they were discovered. "do not fret my friend you are to take the teenage girl Najah and any she deems skilled in archery.
Ghurdan then drew a small layout of the camp from his previous scouting mission and pointed out the rocky outcroppings and how to get to them unseen, "You will take the east side and set light to the camp, hopefully that will be enough to spook their horses and disorient their riders enough for our charge, but if not then we have Najah and her archers fire volley after volley in their midst. the five of them laughed wickedly as they thought about the chaos and carnage they would inflicted upon their enemies.

Once Ghurdan had left, the Four archers went to Find the girl named Najah. As Zasfal approached the young ones camp he came face to face with Jasara "Can I help you!" she said staring at him suspiciously, "Yes the one named Najah is to come with us, she is also asked to bring those archers she deems ready for battle!" he answered evenly, looking about the youngsters to see which she was.

"Najah!" Jasara called without removing her gaze from the four archers before her. "Yes, Jasara" one of the youngsters answered, Zasfal watched as the girl no older than seventeen years walk confidently up to Jasara's side and waited patiently to be spoken to.

"Gather together the best archers we have!" Najah nodded then hurried off to gather those she deemed among their best. Time passed slowly as they waited for Najah's return, Jasara just stood staring at them, no not staring at them but through them! Zasfal shivered at the thought, bringing a slight satisfactory smile to the young girls lips, he returned her smile with a deep scowl. Just then Najah returned with fifteen archers most of them Zasfal was pleased to note looked over their fourtenth year. "we leave at once!" he told them nodding approvingly at the young archers before him. "And just where are we going?" Najah asked, "I will explain while we march, but the battle begins with us!" he grinned evilly. Najah matched his grin then they all set out together.

As they marched Zasfal explained, to Najah what was required of her and her archers. "My group will take the east ridge and await the arrival of our main forces, before the charge we will fire our arrows into the camp and among the horsemen starting fires, " "in the hope to spook the horses" she grinned finishing his sentence, "But I must warn you that the horses of the painted sands do not spook easily" she went on. Zasfal grinned, nodding as though anticipating her words and said "That is were you and your group come in, while their archers try to locate us, you will fire volleys from the west ridge taking down as many of their horses as you can, with their riders horse-less our army will have the advantage." there was a wicked gleam in her eyes as she perceived her role in the upcoming battle.

Before they reach the outer limits of the Tribes scouting parties they split up, Zasfal taking five of Najah's archers with him and one last time making sure that Najah knew what was expected of her. Then He and the other three archers from the Fire Spray along with five smaller figures silently climbed into the rocky ridge they had not gone far when the heard a soft growling, and the pad, pad of feet, "Shh!" Zasfal said raising his hand to halt the men, they listened intently, "Dogs???" one whispered uncertainly, "Three!" another said his ear pressed against the cool ground. Zasfal raised his index finger in the air to feel the direction of the breeze it was coming from, behind them! he thought. "Get ready!" He yelled but his words were lost to the loud barking and snarling of the Large dogs as they came Charging round the corner.

Zasfal was knocked to the ground by the first dog, he rolled on the ground trying to wrestling the great beast off, dodging his head to stop it's huge jaws from ripping off his face. After a few minutes struggle he managed to tuck his legs under the mutts underbelly and kick out sending it flying, he heard a crack as it impacted with the rocky wall. He slowly stood up breathing deeply, Sweat dripping from the ends of his hair and down the ridge of his nose. "It must have broke it's ribs" he sighed. But as he drew his sword to finish it off, he heard a snarl he looked up just in time to see its huge jaws coming towards his throat, he quickly banked right and raised his curved sword. The blade slide right through the dogs under belly, but not before it had clamped it's huge jaws around his left shoulder. He fell to the ground under the weight of the dead beast.

After a few seconds struggle he managed to heave the beasts corpse off, as he got up he saw two of the youngsters finish off another of the dogs, as he turned he saw that one of his men had not fared so well, Zasfal almost bulked as he saw the beast rip out the mans throat, the dog turn, blood dripping from it's maws, it growled at him then seeing it's dead companions it turned to flee. "We can't let it get away!" Ghurdan cried lifting his bow and taking aim, The others must have done the same, as a barage of arrows struck the beast, it gave a loud howl then fell, never to tend its herds again.

"Quickly!" Zasfal called to the other's "we have been waylaid far too long." They reached the high outcropping just in time to see the Tribes men fall back, now one archer short they began their attack. Zasfal Quickly lit the torch they carried and stuck it in the ground. Together they soaked their specially prepared arrows and fired into the camp setting the line of folded canvas tents alight, with their second volley they fired at the archers, who now rose from their hiding place and fired on them as predicted. Zasfal grinned as he heard the whistling of arrows from the youngsters on the opposite ridge and Ghurdan's cry as he signalled the Charge.

[ August 22, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Durelin]

The Servants of the Eye left their desert camp much the same as they had left Umbar. Even the noon sun was a twin to the one so many days before. But now, a tremor ran through the ranks quite unlike the excitement at the departure from the Citadel on their mission. Because now they were marching to battle the infidels. They awaited eagerly to deal out death and to be covered in their enemies' blood. They fingered their weapons, yearning to bring steel upon steel, iron upon iron, and iron and steel upon flesh. The lusting and thirsting was strong, seeming to glimmer around them like the waves of desert heat, seeming to flash between them like the glinting of spears in the bright sunlight. Death was singley on all of their minds, but all of those thoughts were welcomed and many were cherished. For each and every one of them, the death of others was a great splendor of excitement, bringing them happiness and immense enjoyment. Their own deaths were not things that diminished the joyful anticipation at the fact that the infidels were less then a mile away. Their own deaths were of little importance. For them all, it was in service to the Great Eye, the Dark Lord Sauron, and so it was a gift. To die in the service of their lord brought them greatness in their afterlife, for Sauron was the Lord of the Dead, or so they believed. It was this way naturally for all of them...except for the man tied up and being hauled by one of Ghurdan's crewmen.

There was less than half a mile to the infidels encampment, and they could be seen on the horizon across the flat savanna. The tribesmen waited, seemingly patiently, for their attackers, standing still and calm, but with weapons at the ready. For those of the Eye it was a simple matter: if the tribesmen were foolish enough to stand against the Eye in such a way, then so be it. As the Servants drew closer, they could see that these men were driven by hatred almost as deep as that which their enemies held for them. But, what the Army of the Eye could not see was what else those tribesmen were driven by. Love. Love for their families and friends, for their tribes and for their entire way of life. They fought for their tradition and ancesttry, their freedom and their lives. All of these things were worth fighting for far more than what the Servants held weapons for, and they had never known and would never know it. This ultimately was a battle between darkness and light, good and evil, standing as an earthly example of this supernatural battle. But, for those that fought under the blazing sun, it was simply a fight for their lives or a fight against their enemies. And so they collided, emotions driving them all toward their own types of victories, leaving their lives in their hands, and giving them into the mercy of their enemies' steel.

[ August 21, 2003: Message edited by: Durelin ]

[piosenniel]

The tribesmen watched as the Army of the Eye moved further into the valley. A contingent of warriors – those of the Painted Sands, mounted and with swords drawn stood silent where the valley broadened out in front of where the encampment had been. Tents had been pulled down during the night and piled to one side. To the sides of the mounted troops and in a thin line across their front stood a number of the warriors from the Baobab, arrows knocked on their short bows, spears at the ready. Scattered among them were the Elders of the Baobab, their weapons drawn.

As the Eye’s troops advanced, they withdrew several hundred yards, as if hesitant in the face of such armed cruelty.

When they did so, the Eye’s army advanced further to meet them and prepared to engage the Resister’s front lines. At that time two flaming arrows arced up into the clear midday sky, from two archers positioned on small rises behind the tribesmen’s position.

Baobab tribesmen rose up from their hiding places on the ridges on either side of the valley and working their way quickly to the positions on the ridges of the Eye’s archers, began firing arrows tipped with poison at them. From the west, behind the Army of the Eye the nine men brought by Bemah with their eleven dogs moved down from their positions near the entrance to the valley - spears, and bows, and the darting slashing teeth of the great herd dogs, their yellowed eyes set on the two legged foe before them.

Jamílah stood on the frontlines with the other Elders of her Tribe. Her mace was in her right hand, a long knife in the other. At her side stood Husam, his spear in hand. Nasr had been sent by her to lead a small group of archers on the southern ridges. She saw from the corner of her eye the twin trail of flames go up from the south and north.

Fixing the memory of the man and star in her mind, and givng a brief thanks to the spirit of the Baobab Tree for this day of life, she raised her club and with a wild ululation, taken up by the other members of the Baobab, she rushed forward, swinging it down in a crushing blow on the sword arm of a very surprised Eye warrior. His gasp of amazement at the old lady was short lived, as she swung it round and crushed in the side of his head.

Then stepping over his twitching form, she advanced to meet the next one . . .

[ August 21, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Nerindel]

Ghurdan sat proudly upon one of the horses they had stolen two nights ago, his spear in his left hand and his sword in the other, he watched Thorgom brandishing his axes with wild anticipation, he had been right to untie the warrior without Sevora's permission, better he die then one of his men, he thought grinning wickedly. He looked out at the Infidels before them. his grin widening as he realised that their suspicions had been correct, not all of the forces he had seen two nights ago stood before them, the archers were not present, he glanced left and right wondering when and where they would appear. But just them the Tribesmen drew back a little and Ghurdan saw Zasfal's Arrows arch in the clear sky. "CHARGE!!" he cried lowering his spear and spurring the horse onwards into his waiting foe.

He drove his spear into the body of the first of the wild Baobab men who were their enemies front line, then tossed him aside. He continued skewering the foot warriors until one smash a heavy club across it's shaft snapping it in two, Ghurdan threw it down, but as he turned to cut the man down he felt a heavy blow to his side, not strong enough to break his ribs, but strong enough to knock him from his horse. He rolled anticipating another blow, but it never came.

Just then the cold voice in his head yelled "Jasara!" Ghurdan jumped to his feet and looked around wildly, he saw her being assailed by one of the young horse riders, he pulled out his dagger and stabbing and slicing at his enemies he made his way towards her.....

*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*

The first volley of arrows from their enemies had amazingly only killed one adult and two youngsters, Zasfal and the others had managed to dive out of the way. As arrows continued to skip off the rock face, he yelled to one of his companions to throw his bottle in the air towards their attackers, quickly nocking another flaming arrow as he spoke. His companion nodded once then threw the bottle high and out towards the archers, Zasfal fired, the bottle shattered with a loud bang as the flames met the liquid inside, sending flames raining down on their un-expecting enemies. Zasfal then threw his bottle and his companion did likewise exploding it into another torrent of flaming rain.

They then picked off the archers as they rolled on the ground trying to put out the fires on their hair and clothes or as they ran off screaming that the dark one was raining fire down upon them. They continued firing until their arrows were spent, then throwing down their bows and unsheathing their swords, the five that remained took a quick look at each other then leapt down and charged at the remaining archers of their enemies.

Zasfals Curved sword in one hand and his black hammer in the other he slashed and smashed at his victims, until all the archers were dead or fleeing, he breathed heavily and looked around, their was only three of his group still standing, one of the crew and one of the youngsters. Zasfal watched the main battle for a second, then raising his sword and hammer in air and ignoring the sharp pain in his left shoulder, he cried "For the greater glory of the Eye!" Then he charged headlong into the rear of his enemies.

His hammer connected with one of the riders knocking him from his horse, the white haired man got up quicker than he had expected, swinging his sword across Zasfal's chest as he rose, it cut his clothing as he jumped back out of reach, the end of the old man's sword nicking only his chin. Their swords clashed with a sharp ringing as the old man blocked his counter strike and so it went on for some time as each successfully blocked blow after blow. Zasfal saw an excited light in the old mans eyes, 'He is playing with me trying to tire me out!'. "No!" he screamed he was not going to let this old man beat him. He raised his hammer and with all the force he could muster he slammed it against the old mans sword arm, he grinned as he heard it snap and quickly he seized the opening, plunging his sword deep into the old mans stomach.

The mans eyes widened, then with one last gasp he crumpled to the ground, Zasfal put his foot on the dead mans body and pulled out his blade, "Ishak!" he heard another behind him cry. He quickly spun around to meet this new foe.

[ August 22, 2003: Message edited by: Nerindel ]

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Almost all their arrows were spent. The fourteen youngsters that had survived the hail of enemy arrows drew their swords and knives, and waited Najah's orders. Below the outcropping, gruesome skirmishes between young and old, Eye and resisters raged on. Najah noticed at least a few cases where a young convert was fighting a close relative. A wicked gleam was caught in Najah's gaze, and the girl drew her sword in her right hand and gripped the last arrow in her left.

"Charge!" she shouted shrilly, leaping from her spot and sprinting down the outcropping ledge to the nearest Baobab warrior. He was skilled and fought well, but Najah was not about to give in to the middle-aged man before her. In the split second Najah had between parrying his last blow, Najah stabbed the Baobab man in the stomach with her arrow and ran off to the next man; a Painted Sand warrior.

Najah grinned evilly, and chuckled when she found an opening in the man's defensive stance. "Serves you right," Najah laughed when the man went down and the girl dug her broadsword into his chest cavity. This was the battle the girl had been waiting for: Not just the chance to show the elders her worth, but also the chance to actually be able to fight and do something worth dying for. Not that Najah planned on dying during the battle...

Jasara was struggling with her fighting. The voice was telling her where the opponents were, and when something was sneaking up on her. But still, the Eye could not help her be physically stronger than her. Jasara felt lucky that she had gotten past one Painted Sand warrior, for those tribesmen were strong and bred to fight and defend. Suddenly Jasara wished that she was no longer there and was back at the Eye's encampment. Safe.

The next man to approach her was vaguely familiar. It was Husam, Jamilah's son-in-law. His brow was glistening with honest sweat, from defending what he believed in and what he was willing to die for. At least, Jasara hoped he was ready to die...Jasara would not give in to the elders and resisters now, not when she was so close to the end of all her strife.

But Husam was strong. Far to strong for Jasara, who had always left such matters to Nasir and Najah. Jasara struggled past every blow and lunge, and the girl knew that it must have been obvious to Husam how tired she was. Her dark hair was matted against her neck and sweat was stinging in her eyes when Jasara began to feel she could fight no longer. Jasara cried out, her voice slightly louder than the suddenly distant sound of clashing weapons. She called out, to no one in particular, just anyone who could help.

The Eye is with you, Jasara...

[ August 22, 2003: Message edited by: Aylwen Dreamsong ]

[Durelin]

"It was taken care of?" Sevora snarled under her breath as she slashed a tribesman across the face. The man screamed, dropping his weapon and throwing his hands up to cover his face. The blood began to drip through his fingers just as Sevora stabbed him through. For a moment she was safe, which was miraculous, considering they had been caught unawares! The moment was just enough time for her to pick up the dead man's short spear. Lucky. She had used this weapon before and favored it. She lacked strength and made up for it with speed, and, in her mind, this weapon was made for speed on foot, which she preferred. With the short spear she could use one hand or two hands, it was light, and the fact that it was short brought relief to Sevora. She had always had trouble keeping control of a spear butt that seemed so far away. A howling battle cry to her left alerted her of a charging tribesman with a wicked looking moonbeam axe. Sevora held her spear and knife at the ready, standing with knees bent and on the balls of her feet. She was ready to move. Dodging a stroke, especially one so powerful as from an axe, was always her first choice. But the man never reached her. Rahvin's belt knife lay deep in his throat, and the corpse was sprawled in the long grass. Sevora turned round with a grin.

"You would have done well yourself, but I had a clear throw," he said, almost smiling back as he pulled his knife from the corpse's throat. Good. He showed less emotion. Warfare was what had hardened him in the beginning, after all.

"No worries Rahvin, I thank you."

Suddenly Rahvin opened his mouth, apparently to yell, but Sevora had heard the footsteps. Or perhaps it had been instinct. She was not quite sure why, but she turned, and, ducking under a heavy swing from a studded club, Sevora launched herself from a crouch onto the man, her spear and knife hitting him first. She tasted sand and grit and grass, inhaled dust, and felt a warmness running in trickles around her fingers. Her hands were smothered in blood as she pushed herself up off the man. She pulled out her dagger and placed a soft booted foot to pry the spear from within the body's chest. Sevora half noticed Rahvin had just slit open a tribesman's stomach two paces behind her. With bloodied knife and spear, she turned and swept aside the man's bowels with her foot before she took a step forward. Another infidel stood a few paces away from her, and she readied herself to face his charge. This time Rahvin was busy with two enemies of his own. Sevora smiled and called to the man who was cautiously making an approach. It was strange. Why did this man seem hesitant? It was not fear. No, Sevora had seen no fear in the eyes of these men.

Suddenly the man let out a pain filled screech and fell to the ground, writhing and twisting in the dust. As Sevora watched in surprise, something whistled loudly in her ear, and she felt a rush of air pass by her head. Six yards ahead of her, an arrow struck the ground. Sevora ran her hand across her cheek, now seeing the arrow lodged in the man's leg. No scratch. They were poisoned tipped arrows, and not from the archers of the Army of the Eye. Sevora scowled, making a sound deep in her throat much like a growl, and charged a nearby tribesman. "When shall I face a true opponent?" She twisted her spear as she stabbed into the man's back. Would she never face a man in this battle?

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

A sharp pain in his left leg brought a reflexive slash of his sword. He was surprised to hit flesh, producing a strange yelp. Looking down by his feet, Sammael found the corpse of a large brown dog, with short, fine rough fur. A long gash ran up from the top of its front leg to across its large head, revealing white skull and its brains, now beginning to fall into the long grass and the dust. Sammael kicked the carcass over so the split side was not visible. He had already lost his horse to a couple of those dogs. He took one step before a man rushed him from the side. Steel crashed against steel, ringing through the air somehow, though it felt so thick, like fog. Throwing all his strength against the tribesman's blade, Sammael was rewarded with a loud crack and a howl of pain. The howl was cut short as Sammael's sword left the tribesmen's and ran him through. Sammael was surprised to find bone sticking out from the man's arm. He had never known you could do that to a man, break a bone so strongly.

Now two men came at him, screaming in battle rage. One swung a long spear with both hands, the other hefted a large axe, seemingly meant for chopping wood. Sammael did not doubt the axe would have no problem cleaving him. He dodged a swing from the wood axe, also dodging away from the other man. Slashing the axe-man in the side, Sammael realized he had made a mistake. The other tribesman's spear tip was too few feet away. With a surprised scream the man fell to the ground with an arrow in his arm. He still managed to hold his spear in one hand, and he jabbed at Sammael. With a powerful swing, Sammael pushed the spear away from him, and, continuing his forward motion, he brought all of his momentum down into his enemy's chest. The spear snapped in two, as the point of Sammael's sword found flesh first. The rest of the blade followed in a spray of blood, flecking Sammael's entire body.

As he drew his blade out, with some difficulty, he saw another enemy rushing toward him, a wooden club held so naturally. The enemy's eyes were filled with as cold and as deep a loathing and anger as any of the others he had looked into. Except that these brown eyes showed Sammael so much more, piercing him to the core of his being, making his blood run cold and his mind weep for the inhumanity of it. He wished to weep. For this enemy was a woman. Sammael's arms hung limp at his sides as he watched the woman charge toward him. His sword was just barely kept within his hand. Why was this woman on the battlefield, killing and in danger of being killed? The blood on her was not all from her enemies, he realized with a stinging jolt of pain pulsing out from his heart to throughout his entire body. Every heart beat brought unmistakable pain. Minutes seemed to pass, though in his mind that now seemed so far away Sammeal knew it was only a second. The club was raised higher, and she came closer. Those brown eyes loathed him. He braced himself for the blow that he would take willingly. From a woman, who could carry and bring new life into the world. Life…he had never thought how precious it was. Even to the Eye. That she should face death was unfathomable. Sevora and Dristi, Jasara and Khashi -- they were different; they were inhuman. They sickened him.

He would receive the blow from the woman, for the woman. But the blow never came.

Sammael's arm hurt and his sword was held only inches away from his face…blocking the woman's club. He could not. Now the tears ran freely down his face, though he flet shamed because of them. But even more because he still held his sword. He forced himself to look her in the eyes.

"I cannot harm you, woman." Or can you, will you, to protect yourself? He let his arm fall, and he fell to his knees before her. One by one, he was able to free his fingers from the grip on his blade. "I will not."

[ August 26, 2003: Message edited by: Durelin ]

[Nerindel]

As Ghurdan fought his way toward Jasara, he saw the youngster tire under the strain of the warriors fierce attacks, 'she will make a fine priestess, but no warrior.' he laughed coldly, as he finished off another infidel who blocked his way. Suddenly he heard her cry out, looking up he shoved his next assailant out of his way, threw himself on one knee and thrust his sword just in front of Jasara's face, pushing her roughly aside as he did, there was no time to be gentle with the girl.

Sparks flew as the two swords connected, the man was strong but Ghurdan was no novice to battle. He pushed off Husam's sword as he rose to his feet. He then feigned right, Husam obviously saw the feign for what it was and thrust left blocking the anticipated blow, but with the momentum of the block Husam left side became exposed, Ghurdan grinned evilly as he plunged his dagger into the mans exposed left side, his eyes wide as he looked down at the dagger in his side. But his eyes were dark with rage as he looked back at Ghurdan.

Husam would not give up so easily. Ghurdan could barely believe his eyes as the young man still clutching his left side, raised his sword in defiance, Ghurdan knocked it from the bleeding mans hands and raised his own sword to deliver the final blow, but Husam kicked his legs out from under him. Ghurdan sword slipped from his hand , enraged Ghurdan got up and tried to stab the man again, but Husam was ready and grabbed his wrist, they struggled for a few minutes, then Ghurdan punched him hard in his wounded side. Husam doubled over groaning , "Ghurdan!" a voice behind him called "Here!" it was Jasara and she had his sword. He put out his hand as she offered him the hilt, he gripped it tight "For the eye!" he growled as he spun round cutting the surprised warrior right across his chest. As the warrior lay on the ground unable to move, Ghurdan again raised his sword ready to deliver the killing blow........

[piosenniel]

Ealasaid's post: Ahmad kills Ghurdan

Riding among the mounted warriors of the Painted Sands, Ahmad spurred his horse forward with the first charge. The endless waiting had finally come to an end, he thought, as the blade of his sword connected with the first of the warriors of the eye. He brought his blade down in a fierce slash against the man’s collar bone, withdrew it, and ran the man through. He fell in a heap on the ground. Scarcely even glancing at the fallen man, Ahmad turned his horse to face his next foe.

For a while he could see Adhem fighting somewhere off to his right, but, after a time, lost sight of him. Somewhere to his left, Husam fought alongside the group of Baobab spearmen. Ahmad had seen him before the fighting started and, remembering his promise to Qirfah, now worked his way in that direction. He made slow progress as the warriors of the eye ceded no ground without first sacrificing life or limb. He had just caught sight of Husam engaged in fighting a Baobab girl -- was it Jasara? -- when he was clubbed hard from behind and knocked from his horse. Ahmad landed heavily on his left shoulder, but was able to roll with the momentum and regain his feet as the other warrior advanced.

The warrior raised his sword to drop a crushing blow that would have severed Ahmad’s sword arm, except that Ahmad was able to parry it with his sword. He then made a sharp feint to the right and moved in, smashing the pommel of his sword into the man’s nose. There was a sharp crack as the bones shattered in the warrior’s face. Blood spurted from the cavity where his nose had been, blinding the man. Ahmad finished him with a single thrust of his sword. Turning his attention back toward Husam, Ahmad saw that the girl had disappeared and been replaced by the scarred warrior he had seen earlier among the priestess’ envoy. Ghurdan, he was called. Jerking his sword free of the warrior he just dispatched, Ahmad leaped to Husam’s aid.

“For the eye!” growled the scarred warrior, raising his sword to administer the final blow to Husam. Ahmad’s blade intercepted the blow inches before it met its mark.

“Not so fast,” he growled in return. The two of them squared off, circling each other, swords at the ready. The scarred warrior smiled.

“Come on, boy,” Ghurdan taunted Ahmad. He lowered his blade slightly. “You dare to run up against me? You’ll shatter like glass against a stone.”

“Will I?” answered Ahmad. Testing his opponent, he made a quick feint with his blade. Ghurdan’s sword answered it with lightning quickness. Ahmad knew then that he would have to fight his best against this man. Anything less would mean his death. He made slash toward Ghurdan’s right side, which Ghurdan parried and followed with a thrust at Ahmad’s thigh. Ahmad dodged, knocking the blow aside with his sword as it passed. His left hand, which had been holding his reins, felt for the dagger he wore at his waist. Finding it, he and Ghurdan circled each other once more.

Again, Ghurdan smiled. This time, he beckoned to Ahmad with his left hand. Seizing the opportunity, Ahmad leaped forward, his sword raised. Ghurdan blocked the blow with his sword, and, for an instant, their hand guards locked and they stood nearly nose to nose. Sneering, Ghurdan drew his fist back to strike, but he had not seen the dagger in Ahmad’s left hand. He never saw it as Ahmad drove it deep at an upward angle under his ribcage into his heart. Ghurdan’s dark eyes glazed over, and his limp body dropped to the earth.

Disengaging himself from Ghurdan’s body, Ahmad ran to where Husam lay, bloody and still on the ground, yet still breathing. Ahmad bent over him, his eyes taking in the extent of the other man’s wounds. Blood poured from a stab in Husam’s left side. Taking off his head shawl, Ahmad pressed it to the wound in an attempt to staunch the bleeding.

“Is he dead?” whispered Husam.

“The scarred warrior? Yes, I got him for you.”

“Good.” Husam tried to smile, but his breath caught in his throat, changing the smile to a grimace, as a fresh wave of pain took him. Ahmad lifted him against his shoulder, still pressing the head shawl to the wound in Husam’s side.

“Ahmad, is it?” Husam asked after the pain had passed.

“Yes.”

“You know my wife, then.”

Ahmad nodded, a sudden dread entering his heart. “Yes, I know her.”

Husam raised his blood-caked hand and gripped Ahmad’s hand in his. “Take care of her for me. I know I am not long for this world. Go back. See that she knows I thought of her at the last. See that she wants for nothing.”

Gravely, Ahmad nodded again. He remembered another promise, the one he had made to Qirfah. As hard as he had tried, he had not managed to keep it. “I will,” he said grimly, giving Husam‘s hand a squeeze. “She shall want for nothing.”

Husam nodded, satisfied, and closed his eyes. “Tell her I love her.”

“It is done,” Ahmad reassured him, but it was too late. Husam’s grip on his hand had gone limp. He breathed no more. Ahmad laid Husam’s head back on the ground and with his fingertips, lowered his eyelids over the now sightless eyes. Finally, he laid Husam’s hands upon his chest and rose to go. The fighting still raged around him. There was no time to grieve or make his peace with the man’s memory. That would have to come later.

Nodding once to Nasr, who had caught his eye through an opening in the battle, Ahmad picked up his sword and returned to the fray.

[ August 27, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

Nasr

Once they had done what damage they could do, the tribesmen archers made their way down to the main battle, to the positions that the Baobab were holding. Nasr and his five bowmen hurried to the line where the Elders were fighting. Three of them had drawn their swords and clubs, and two, following the others, still held their bows.

In the press of battle, Nasr caught a glimpse of Jamílah and he craned his neck looking for Husam, but could not see him. A small group of six of the young had pressed in about one end of the Elders' line, and were moving steadily in on two of the Baobab men – Ismat and Faruq. The two elders stood back to back, their blades flashing as they revolved in a small circle. The youngsters, a mixture of the Baobab and Painted Sands drew the noose in tighter, coming at the men from all sides.

By the time Nasr’s small band reached them, Faruq had gone down under the blows of two of the Baobab young ones. The stood over him, their weapons prepared for the death blow, when his hand snaked up like lightning, his right hand driving his dagger into the gut of the nearest one. ‘Tajir!’ he hissed with his dying breath, as he ripped open the flesh. ‘With my last strength I will take you from the service of the Eye.’ Tajir fell near him, crumpling in a bloody heap on the ground, his eyes already clouding over with death. Through lips frothy with bloody spittle, Faruq spoke reaching his hand out to touch the boy’s pale cheek with own cold hand. ‘You are Baobab. And so will you die . . .’ His words trailed off as the other young one dealt him the death blow.

Now Ismat faced the remaining five young ones. His left arm was useless, broken at the elbow from a blow by Nasir and from an arrow buried deep in the upper chest from Narisa’s bow. Her face was grim as she watched the others move in on the Elder of the Grey Parrot Clan, and she knocked another arrow taking aim to drive it deep into his heart. Her aim was knocked askew as an arrow from the advancing tribesmen drove deep into the arm that drew back the bowstring. She turned, surprised, her face a twisted mask of disbelief. The Baobab bowman had drawn his long knife, and now drove it deep into her side. Its point beveled up, sliced into her heart, stilling it.

Ismat fell as one of the three remaining youngsters drove his pointed stake into his belly. The youngster was cut down by the other Baobab bowman as Nasr ran to the side of Ismat, and knelt down, holding the dying man’s head in his hands. With the last of his strength, Ismat grasped Nasr’s hand tightly. ‘Take care of Duha for me, little brother. Tell her my last thoughts were of her and of our son, Munir.’ Nasr bent low and spoke softly in the man’s ear. ‘They are safe now. I will watch over them.’ With a short gasp and a soft sigh, the Elder’s spirit fled the battlefield. Nasr stood, grieved there was no time to lay him out in a respectful manner. There were still three of the young, bent on killing who they might.

Nasir, Jasara’s second in command, pulled the youngsters back into a defensive position as they faced the five Baobab tribesmen. No mercy shone in the eyes of the advancing older men. Their faces were set as hard and dark as if they had been chipped from obsidian. Swiftly, a hail of arrows from the two bowman flew to their intended targets. The youngsters, the fact of their youth giving them extra reserve, fought on mightily, rallying around Nasir in an effort to stem the onslaught. Their blows found purchase on the bodies of two of the Baobab who carried swords, and they knocked them to the ground. But they had no time to savour the kill, no hope of recouping the victory.

Nasr’s men cut them down where they stood. Their young bodies fell in a heap on the already bloodied ground – their spirits called out rudely into the waiting arms of death.

_____________________________________________

Nasr and Thorgom

He could see the sword flash in a killing arc. Nasr looked grim and picked up his pace, dodging blows as he ran to where Husam fought the tall warrior with the red Eye tattooed on his right shoulder. He saw Husam go down and Ahmad step in to kill the scar-faced warrior. From behind the warrior of the Eye stepped a giant of a man, his long dark hair hanging to his waist, intent on keeping the tattooed warrior from harm.

Nasr watched as the larger man raised his two headed axe, preparing to deal a fatal blow to Ahmad. With scarcely a pause in his steps, he picked up an abandoned spear, stuck slantways in the ground. Gripping it tightly in both hands, he ran full tilt into the large warrior, burrowing the long, sharp iron point of it in the hollow just below the breastbone. Nasr pushed on it with all his weight, until the man’s heart was pierced and the axe fell from his limp hands, now clutching uselessly at his chest. Thorgom staggered back, dazed from the force of the blow and the loss of blood. His knees buckled, and with an ooph! he hit the ground and fell to his side, his ragged breathing winding down in jerky steps to nothing.

By the time Nasr turned back to Husam, his spirit had already fled. Ahmad, his face grave, had gently laid the slain man’s head on the ground, and now he closed the sightless eyes, and laid the man’s hands on his chest. There was no time to grieve him. Nasr caught Ahmad’s eye and nodded once to him in recognition and in thanks.

And still the battle raged on, pulling them once again into the midst of it.

[ August 25, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Arien]

Dristi ran head first into the first tribesman she met drawing her knives in both fists, he was quite large and easily twice her size. He was clad in brown, but his chest was bare, and he weilded a hefty sword that glimmered in the sun as her raised it. He grined, showing a few rotting teeth as he raised it to strike down on her insignificant from beneath him. While he took his time to hoist his sword Dristi quickly ran forwad plunging the knife in her right hand into his chest but now his sword was quickly falling toward her head leaving little time to escape. She span out to her right, knife still in his chest, his sword hit the ground followed by him when she had withdrawn the knife from his bloody chest. She smiled at the blood-spattered body for a few moments, she was doing what she loved.

She turned from the body, her pulse racing as another two came for her, both their swords held high. She kicked one in the chest winding him, the other met her knives before the stroke of his sword fell. She had driven the two knives into the sides of his chest, they passed through his ribs and puncturing his lungs immediately, he was breathless instantly, his death was inevitable as he fell to the floor. The other, who had stumbled back lost sight of her till he felt a knife at his throat. She drew it swiftly across, making a clean cut. He fell to the floor, but not before he slashed her bare leg with his sword. Blood poured from it, but it was no fatal wound. Before she left his body she spat on it, cursing him as a sharpe pain shot up her leg.

She now slaughtered a few more gaining only a small number of scrapes on her part. Her eyes darted around wildly for her next victim, the sun beat down heavy and tiny beads of sweat started to for on her fore head. She turned back around to see how the rest were doing. This was a definite mistake as she was greeted by the face of one of the Eyes warriors, Damodred.

“Dristi,” he shouted pointing behind her, she span round and looked up. A great horse now shielded to sun from her eyes. But it was no relief, it was and enemy. She had to act quickly, she fell to the floor so not to be seen by the rider and slid under the horse. It was risky, she could have easily been trampled by the animal but then Dristi wasn’t thinking clear. Whenever she fought she was blinded by the butchery, the killing and this caused to make irrational decisions. For a few seconds the horse was stll until the rider realised where she had disappeared to. The horse was now thrashing around, stamping on the floor.

Dristi rolled with its movements, and almost once having her skull crushed when she had anticipated the movements wrong. In one sudden burst she thrust her knives into the horses underbelly, dragging them along so to large slits were carved into it, blood fell over her as the beast now thrashed around even more, but she managed roll out from underneath it. Just. The horse keeled the side tossing its rider absent mindedly to the side. It flaied one the floor for a while, but then was still.

However a more interesting scene was unfolding. Damodred now had his sword pointed at the man on the floor, it was a certain kill so Dristi did not bother to intervene till she heard the cry of her name. Damodred now was on the floor with his sword through his heart. The main he had failed to slay was now coming towards her, his own sword at his side.

“Ah, Dristi is it?” he spat, “are you not one of the Order?” His eyes burned, his hand fingering the hilt of his sword.

“Yes…and will I be introduced to my opponent?”she replied slyly, as the two now circled each other slowly.

“Adhem, remember it, it will be the name of your killer!” he drew his sword and held it high, sunlight danced upon it.

“Oh really?” she answered.

“Yes!” he ran to her, his sword pointed at her torso. She had only one option, she too started to run, she then slid to the floor again and passed between his legs. She herself was quite surprised she was not skewered on the end of his sword but there was no time to wonder. He had already turned and she was on the floor. Again he ran towards her, she grasped on of her knives and threw it at him. It hit him square in the right eye, he fell to the floor discarding his sword. Dristi rose and grabbed it and drove it into his back. Dristi threw the sword away and kicked him over, she retrieved her knife which now had Adhem’s eye on the end of it. Dristi stared at it for a moment.

“I’ve never done that before!” she laughed plucking the eye and holding it in her hand, “interesting…” but there was no time to relish her new attack, a fresh assailant was heading her way. So she placed the eye in her water flask, to keep it fresh. She would tend to it later.

[ August 24, 2003: Message edited by: Arien ]

[piosenniel]

Essenia

The fighting at the rear of the Umbrian column grew ragged. The Eye’s archers had, for the most part, joined the fray at the front of the line, leaving the troops at the back to face the harrying tactics of the farmers and the dogs. Essenia had long ago abandoned her own bow, its arrows spent. Now her knives flashed in a vicious pattern as the attackers darted in and out, harassing the warriors, scattering their attention by their feints from all sides.

There were thirteen warriors of the Eye holding the rear position, including Essenia. One by one they were being picked off by a diversionary tactic from one or two of the dogs, separated like sheep from the group and made easier targets for the farmers with their spears and cudgels. The warriors’ numbers dwindled until it was just Essenia and another Corsair who stood back to back defending their little patch of ground.

Of the six dogs who had at first begun the attack, there were now five still left, one of them having been disabled with a blow to its shoulder. And all nine of the farmers were still on their feet, though five of them now were slipping in among the downed to finish them off.

The five dogs and four farmers ringed the two Corsairs, ignoring the taunts of ‘What sort of men are you, that you would set so many on just two.’ The ring moved in closer, silent, their gaze steady on the two Umbrians.

‘We are this sort of men, wharf rat. We are hunting vermin, not honorable foe. We will do this as we have always done for such useless pests as you. Send in the dogs to rout you out, then follow up with the kill.’

With that he gave a series of three short, sharp whistles. The dogs, in a frenzy of slavering jaws and slashing teeth rushed in, some leaping at the arms and hands that held the weapons, others darting in low at the soft flesh of calves and thighs.

For their part, Essenia and the man met them bravely, slashing out as they could at the marauding canines. But it was not enough, and they were brought down at last . . . their last sight that of the men behind the dogs . . . their spears and cudgels raised . . .

[ August 25, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

After Jasara’s rescue by Ghurdan, the girl darted her way out of the major battlefield, fervently wishing for it all to be over. She had risked not only her own life, but also the life of Ghurdan. Perhaps she had sacrificed Ghurdan, even. Jasara stood on the lower ledges of the outcropping, overseeing the battle. Jasara knew she had been lucky, for she’d only been sliced in a few places before Ghurdan had come to the rescue. Dark red blood stained her tunic and breeches, seeping through the cloth. It could have been worse. She could have been killed.

Uri had gotten through several Painted Sand warriors before joining Jasara on the ledge. The two breathlessly and wordlessly watched the battle, as if they were part of neither side and were merely onlookers. They watched from the rear of the tribesman’s front of the battle, though sides had clearly been forgotten and meaningless when the two sides mixed for fighting.

Meanwhile, Khasia was in the midst of battle, using her spear to get through each foe. Occasionally she would pick up a lost weapon and use it as a surprise attack, but she was far too fatigued by then to hold a broadsword for more than a killing blow. Khasia went through a few very close calls, as most of her opponents were close to twice her size, but Khasia was destined to live through the battle. She knew it, and never gave up past every elder or warrior she fought. She fought calmly, using her agility as an extra weapon against larger men.

Nearing the ledged outcropping where Uri and Jasara stood motionless, Khasia finished off one more warrior before noticing something moving behind the stationary pair. What was it?

"Jasara! Uri!" Khasia cried, despite not knowing the threat. Her call came just a second late, as a huge dog leapt up and tackled Uri to the ground and three others began to encircle Jasara. Khasia sprinted up the ledge, spear in hand as she went to help Uri. The dog that was on top of Uri had proceeded to sink its teeth deep into Uri's left shoulder. At this attack Khasia stabbed the beast deep in the back several times before shoving it off of Uri.

Jasara had managed to shove away one dog for a moment longer, but the other two were ready to attack. Jasara dug her dagger deep into the chest of the first dog that attempted to attack her, but the dog was strong and swiped a clawed paw at Jasara's face as one last stand against the girl before it feel dead.

Uri leapt on top of one of the two dogs left, surprising the dog before the boy used all his strength to pull back the dog's neck. As Uri tried to snap the dog's neck, Jasara and Khasia took care of the last dog, with Khasia tossing her spear and Jasara throwing her dagger at and into the dog. When all four dogs were finished off, the three youngsters wordlessly returned to the battle.

[ August 24, 2003: Message edited by: Aylwen Dreamsong ]

[piosenniel]

Jamílah and Sammael

"I cannot harm you, woman." Or can you, will you, to protect yourself? Sammael let his arm fall, and he fell to his knees before her. One by one, he was able to free his fingers from the grip on his blade. "I will not."

He is the same age as Husam she thought to herself, a sudden weariness assailing her.

She had seen Husam fall from a distance and had not seen him rise again. Unable to get to him as the battle swelled and pressed against her, she had fought on, using her mace and her knives as needed. A trail of dead bodies lay behind her - the blood from their dying marked her with its dark crimson spatters. And now this man knelt before her. This strange man whose sword had clattered to the ground by his own willing . . .

She placed the flat of her left hand against his forehead, her fingers extending up like a fleshy crown upon his shaven head. He trembled slightly at her touch, raising his hazel eyes to meet her dark ones. The answering light she looked for in his gaze was not there.

‘You are some mother’s son . . .’ she murmured softly to him. The sounds of battle retreated from the small pocket of grace that held them apart from the chaos swirling round them. ‘A woman bore you in pain and joy . . . gave you life . . . brought you into the light . . .’ She shook her head slowly as she looked at him . . . her tears, spilling onto his head, ran down his forehead to gather in the shallow wells of his own eyes. ‘And now darkness has taken you . . .’

Her right hand let loose the mace she held. It clattered to the ground, abandoned as the sword it fell upon. From her belt she drew the obsidian knife she wore, the same she had used in so many birthings to sever the cord that held the baby to the mother. He gasped as she raised it, but did not pull away. With a practiced stroke she cut his throat from ear to ear, a great gaping, bloody smile of death . . . severing him from the dark, unnurturing mother he had chosen for himself . . .

The sounds of battle returned as his fallen form lay lifeless at her feet.

And just as sudden was the quick intake of breath . . . the soft ‘O’ of surprise that flickered on the features of her face. Some unknown craven’s spear . . . run through her from the back.

Jamílah’s face softened in recognition.

Death, that storied old crone, had found her, standing over the body of the young man . . . and beckoning with a toothless, knowing smile . . . sighing softly . . . Death reached to welcome her . . .

[Durelin]

Pio's post: Bemah and Naramarth

Bemah was covered in blood. Fighting at the rear of the battle had been heavy work, and he and his men and dogs had moved in a long practiced way: culling the targeted creature, singling it out and wearing it down, dispatching it with an economy of strokes, moving on to the next.

At one point, the hair of his victim held tightly in his hand, the neck arched back, his arm reaching round to slash the throat from left to right, Bemah laughed, a dark grim sound, but a laugh nonetheless. It took his fellows by surprise - that sound, mixing in with the others on the killing ground. ‘So many dead,’ he said in an economy of words, no laughter etching the features of his face, as he let go the dead warrior. His chin nodded out at the carcasses of those whom they had killed. ‘They die at our hands just as the goats and sheep from our herds do. Their deaths are worthless . . . less than worthless. They will bring no profit even to their Dark Master.’

‘Come, Bemah,’ his brother called to him, wiping his crimsoned hands along the thighs of his breeches. ‘We are not yet done.’

One of the last they faced was a tall slender man bearing a black, two handed sword. The great red stone set in its hilt caught the mid-day sun as the blade arced and slashed at the foes that surrounded him. ‘One of the priests! Look!’ Bemah’s gaze turned toward the man in the long black coat, noting the dark red colors of the robes he wore beneath it.

Bemah’s eyes narrowed at the sight. ‘One of the bellwethers,’ he said, pointing to Naramarth. ‘Cut him down and there will be one less to lead them.’

The circled behind him, letting Naramarth’s attention stay on the tribesmen who stood before him. With a signal from their master’s left hand, Bemah’s two dogs moved in, swift and low, their mighty jaws finding purchase on the knee backs of the priest; their sharp teeth clamping down hard through the layers of robes to bring the man to his knees. He could not twist in time to fend them off with his blade, and it fell clattering from his grip as the third dog launched himself squarely at the back of the man’s neck, his weight slamming against the man’s back, driving him face forward to the ground. Bemah called back the dogs as two of his companions rushed to the priest’s head, crushing it beneath the blows of their ironwood cudgels.

‘Come,’ called Bemah, now, to his brother, who leaned heavily on his club, his breath ragged from the exertion of one more kill. ‘We are almost done.’

[ August 26, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Durelin]

A stinging pain brought only a smile from Sevora. She finally faced a true opponent. Fingering the light slash down her cheek, Sevora eyed the tribesman before her. They circled, watching each other for a move. Sevora idly wondered who was quicker. He was inevitable stronger; his arms were quite muscular. And he held his spear with a natural deadliness, which made him all the more dangerous. Suddenly he lunged forward, and Sevora fell to the ground in order to dodge the man's spear. Rolling across the ground, Sevora was able to get a slash in the man's foot, giving her time to get up. This time she lunged at him, only to have her blow blocked by the man's own spear. She tried to stab him with her knife now that they fought in close quarters, but he knocked it away from his body with the butt of his spear and pushed it into Sevora's stomach. With a grunt of the air rushing out of her, she couldn't afford to take the time to catch her breath, and so she jumped back, gasping and wheezing. The man came at her, knowing he had yet another advantage over her, as she was weakened. Sevora dropped her knife in order to hold her short spear in both hands to block his spear thrust. Her spear only broke, and his spear kept going, till it struck her in the side.

It was pain unlike anything she had ever felt or even desired to feel. The pain gripped her entire body, locking her muscles. It seemed she could feel the blood scorching and freezing her bones as it rushed to leave her body through the gaping wound. Her breath was short, and icy sweat suddenly covered her. It was a strange mix of the cold sweat and the hot blood. Sevora knew that this was the pain of death. This was a pain that could not be forgotten or ignored in the slightest, even by the strongest and most practiced mind. This was the pain Rahvin had already experienced. That realization sent another pain to sting her soul. She looked up and…she saw. Her eyes still saw the world. She was alive for now. And she saw the tribesmen standing over her, his eyes locked on her. He still held his spear ready to use. He was making sure she was dead. She could see… Sevora put her hand into the blood pouring out of her side, cupping her hand to gather as much as she could. Then, looking up again at the man, the infidel, she flung her life source in his face, and was rewarded by an enraged yell. The man dropped his spear and pulled up his hands to wipe the blood from his eyes. In those few moments, Sevora managed to rise. She swayed where she stood and could only just feel her feet. So she grabbed the man to support herself…grabbed him by the throat. She faintly felt her legs. She stared into the eyes of her enemy, most of her blood gone from them, and tried to focus. To remain awake from her long sleep. The man's legs gave way before the gurgling in his throat stopped, so Sevora had no warning of her fall. She hit the ground hard, though luckily her arm took most of the impact. She could still feel it.

Suddenly someone else stood above her, as her killer had. Sevora wondered if this tribesman would be merciful and deliver a quick killing blow. If it was an enemy. She -- darkness consume her! -- she could not see! Her vision was blurry. She could feel a burning heat rising in her throat. She knew what this was. Her blood. Her life was running from her body, leaving just a case, an empty shell that was not she. Her soul was all that kept that body hers, and made her alive. Without it, her body, her casing, her shell, would rot, being food for the bugs. "I will hold power among the worms!" she said quietly, the blood running from her mouth in small trickles. It sprayed forth as she laughed, wheezing and hoarsely. The person knelt down, peering at Sevora, and she could just make out who it was. Only just. O how she wished to weep! If only she had the strength. It was Jasara. A blessing it was not Ghurdan or Dristi who saw her in such a state. Weakened to the point of destruction. Had the end come because the Eye had abandoned her? Or had her Master known she would…destroy herself. She had brought her own death upon her, had she not? She had underestimated both her enemies and her allies. Her so-called allies. Was Jasara an ally? A true ally? It was too late to worry about that. She had no more need of allies. But…

"What of my afterlife, Jasara? My Master abandoned me before my death. Will he welcome me back after it?" Sevora's blurred vision still saw Jasara's eyes clearly. Alight with a cold flame. What did her eyes look like now?

"Our Master should, for you have served him beyond measure."

"But I gave myself to my own destruction."

"Perhaps it is only time for you to serve out Master in a different way. In a different world."

Serve me… The cold, grating voice echoed through her mind, bringing a moment of fiery life back into her dying body. Her Master could replace her blood, her life! And he would! She would continue to serve him after death, beyond this world. In different ways. And he would welcome her.

"Yes…it is. I will serve. As you will, Jasara, here. You will become a Priestess to our Master, and you will rise to the Highest of the Order! No other Priestess has done so, but it is time women such as you and I were made known. Our Master calls me in the grave, but you, Jasara, you have much yet to do in this world of the living." She stopped, gasping for breath, choking on her own blood. She knew now that she must chose her words, for few she would be able to say. She could feel an icy hand waiting to clamp down on her heart. Was it her Master?

"Be a good cat, sister." Sevora began to laugh again, a high almost trilling sort of cackle, sounding so full of life that it did not fit with her pale face and the blood covering her lips and chin. Her eyes burned again. As her laughter died, her body died with it, and her spirit went in search of her Master.

[Durelin]

Nerindel's post: Zasfal Pulls Back the Remaining Troops

Zasfal pulled his sword for his last victim and turned to meet the next, but this last fight had taken him away from the main battle and from where he stood he could see that this battle was lost. The only Leader he could see was the priestess Dristi, her blood lust driving her.


As Zasfal made his way through the mass of bodies he stumbled and came face to face with the lifeless body of his captain. His eye's fell on the red hilt of Ghurdan's sword "Take what is rightfully yours" echoed a cold voice in his head, Zasfal hesitated. "You have proved yourself this day, lead and they will follow!" the voice urged him. He slowly gripped the hilt of the large broadsword, it strangely felt right in his hands he swung it left then right. "Yes, this is my destiny" he grinned.

He then made his way to Dristi, wielding the sea captains sword. "We must fall back!" he shouted to her above the clashing of swords. She didn't look pleased but agreed with his assessment. "Fall back! Fall back!" he cried. Grimly the men and what was left of the youngsters fell back with their dead and wounded to the western end of the valley.

Once sure the Infidels did not follow, they tended their wounded and set up pyres for the dead, "Oh! great Eye these warrior's have served thee faithfully and to honour them we sacrifice their bodies that they may join with you in the Great Abyss" Dristi prayed nodding her head for them to light the pyres.

As the men and children broke away, Zasfal remained and watched the flames as they burned against the cold night sky. He heard someone come up behind him, "we are moving out at once, I wish to return to the Citadel as soon as possible" Dristi's cold voice whispered beside him. He afforded her a short bow and went to make the men ready. Within half an hour they where slowly moving across the darkness of the desert, there heads hung heavily at their defeat. Zasfal grimly hoped that what they brought back was enough not to incur the wrath of the citadel.

[ August 26, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[piosenniel]

The army of the Eye had lost its leaders. They had withdrawn, disordered, taking their dead and wounded with them to the western end of the valley.

In the aftermath of the battle, the green field, where once the tents of the tribesmen stood, was now littered with the bodies of the dead and dying. Asim, the remaining Elder of the Baobab, was now in charge, and he directed those still able to stand and walk to bring the bodies of their fallen companions back to the eastern end of the field. Those injured were also to be brought back and placed in the large tent they had set up there.

Nasr had fished out the small basket of healing herbs and potions which Jamílah had kept for herself from the stock she sent with her daughters. Somewhat familiar with his wife’s and his wife’s mother’s healing skills, he moved among the injured - helping those he could, and easing the pain of those who were dying. Several others of the Baobab assisted him - the soft murmuring of their voices giving assurance to their fellows as they plied them with the herbs and unguents; their tears flowing freely as friends and family passed on.

When they were done, and all who could be saved were resting peacefully on their pallets, the men gathered the sixteen bodies of the fallen and placed them on a great pyre of dried wood. Their sightless eyes were closed, their faces, smoothed out in death were turned upward to the evening sky, their arms folded over their hearts. Alongside them were placed the four dogs which had fought so well against the intruders.

The pyre was lit from all four directions as the tribesmen stood in silence about it. To the north, just a small distance away could be seen the remainder of the Painted Sands tribe, attending to their own eighteen fallen comrades.

And when the flames leaped high, licking the shells of those who had fought against the shadow, Asim stepped forward, speaking softly the words of passing, his murmurings carried up in the flickering flames and smoke, his pauses punctuated by the crackling fire. Those left living, beat the ends of their weapons on the hard ground, in a steady staccato, a deep cry at their losses issuing from their throats in one voice.

Then it was done. The fire raged on, fueled by additional wood the tribesmen threw on the pyre. Asim conferred with Ahmad, now the leader for the Painted Sands. The tribes would gather the horses and move their remaining number to where the women and children awaited them.

The injured were gathered into a wagon drawn by two horses and driven by one of the Painted Sands’ men. Nasr and two of his companions rode in the wagon with the wounded, tending to their needs. Nasr said farewell to Bemah and his men, promising to come in the spring, when the goat kids were ready, for those that Husam had bargained about.

Against the dark, star studded desert sky, the twin flames that consumed their fellow tribesmen burned steadily . . . growing smaller in the distance as they made their way eastward.

[Arien]

“Fall back! Fall back!” cried Zasful, reluctantly Dristi followed the rest. They brought their dead and injured too, and Dristi insisted on searching the dead before they were burnt. She walked along the rows of dead till her eyes fell upon the body of a priest, Naramarth. She had not expected him to survive the battle, and he had been no real use to them so his loss was not felt. She kept walking passed dead villagers and warriors, ignoring their slaughtered bodies as if they were non existent. Her eyes now came to Sevora. Sevora! She was dead, Dristi could not believe her own eyes that she was dead. She dropped to her knees and looked upon her face. It was cold, cold with death and defeat. And although this meant Dristi was finally rid of her it did not feel like it was supposed to.

She did not feel like laughing, or smiling or feeling happy that she was dead. She did not feel anything, she was numb. The one she had envied was now dead and she didn’t enjoy it! What was wrong with her?! Why should she even think of morning Sevora’s death, the woman tried to kill her, humiliated her and now the once great priestess had met her match in some foolish tribesman. Dristi could not understand it, her stomach churned and her breath was drawn deep. I hate her! So why do I feel like this? What is this weakness that I feel, even in death this woman still taunts me with her superiority! Tears started to from in her eyes, whether it was from her frustration or something else she could not tell. But they were quickly subdued and she rose.

“Oh! great Eye these warrior's have served thee faithfully and to honour them we sacrifice their bodies that they may join with you in the Great Abyss!” she nodded for the fire to be lit, and it was. Fuelled by wood and spirit that had been poured on the remains the air was soon filled with the smell of burning bodies . She watched them burn. Sevora was one of the last to be consumed by the flames. They licked her corpse tenderly and then engulfed her whole body. Then Dristi turned to the remaining warriors. “We head back to the Citadel, those who came from the village will return at their own biding, the rest are to return. We leave as soon as we can!”

After talking shortly to Zasful they were ready to leave at sunset. They were to walk during the night, no rest would be allowed until they reached the Citadel. Dristi headed the company, with Zasful and the others behind her. She walked at a steady pace under to haunting moonlight. The group looked like ghosts under its pale glimmer and its forgiving coolness. Not much was said, and Dristi did not speak at all, only murmurs from the remaining young ones were heard.

-----------------------------------------

Within a few days they reached the Citadel, the bustling streets showed no recognition of any word of their defeat, and there would be none. She had warned them before they had left if any word got out that they had nearly collapsed at the hands of tribesmen that person would be hunted down, personally, by her. She did not think that all of them took the threat to heart, maybe she would be busy in the coming months.

Dristi walked up the Citadel steps to where the high priest was waiting. She took only Zasful, Jasara and Khasia with her. They bowed low in reverence and the Dristi stood.

“So few of you return?” he snarled looking behind Dristi to their insignificant group. “And you, “ he lifted his hand to her face, brushing her hair from her face and then holding her chin up, “the only priest left?”

“Yes,” she answered sternly, “Sevora was gravely mistaken, they were harder to suppress than she had anticipated. Therefore she died at the hands of and infidel. This is all that survived, along with converts that came to honour The Dark Lord.”

“And the others?”

“All dead..”

“All?”

Dristi hesitated for a moment, “Yes all, those who did not convert are dead.”

“Good!” then he turned to Zasful, “The warriors are dismissed, they may leave knowing they fought for a just cause. Dristi, wont you bring our young guests into our home?” he smiled and walked into the Citadel. Dristi nodded to him and then to Zasful. She gathered the young ones and ushered them into the darkness of the Citadel.

--------------------------------------------

A few months later Dristi sat in the Sanctuary of Death, alone. She had on the traditional dress apart from the necklace that hung from her neck. But there was no jewel set into it, it was a circle of white, and then of brown and then black in the centre. It was there to remind her of the one who said he could defeat her. Sad really, but then the priestess would never admit it, she was too proud for her own good and her looks did not help her already inflated ego. And neither did that one taste of humanity that she had had. For once in her life she had felt sadness even if it was for an enemy she would never forget it. And she would never forget that battle where darkness had prevailed, just. And it was only because of a lie they did not loose. Lies, deceit, corruption it was what the darkness was about and why she loved it. And so the journey goes on, as it has always been, for as long as there is life, the darkness will never end.

[piosenniel]

Epilog

Year 20 of the Fourth Age

Throughout the years of his reign, King Elessar sent emissaries out to the outlying countries of Arda to extend the hand of friendship and the offer of peaceful relations with the Reunited Kingdom. It was on one such mission that Giladan, Errand Rider of Gondor, found himself, after many months of travel - coming into the outskirts of a small tented village in the Hither Lands, near a large bay along the Inner Seas.


‘Paw-paw! Look who we’ve found!’ ‘He’s come at last!’

It was early morning. The pale light of dawn just brightening the eastern rim of the sea. Nasr sat wrapped in his shawl near the fire. Fifty-seven years had not dimmed the light and kindness in his aging eyes. His dark hair had turned now a grizzled grey, and he sat close to the heat of the fire, warming his bones against the chill of the new day. Qamar sat near him, Naar at her side. The women were sorting through their stock of herbs, grey head leaning close to one with tight black curls shot through with silver, talking of what they would need when next the Painted Sands came through.

Nasr looked north, toward the source of the piping voices. There, in the distance, were his five year old twin great-grandchildren – Meelah and her brother, hanging onto the hand and cloak of a tall, fair man with dark shoulder length hair. He could see the man grinning as he listened to the chatter of the children. His great horse, walking carefully behind him, kept an eye out to the darting and weaving of the children as they danced and skipped at times about his rider’s leg and at times paused to hold his hand or grasp his cloak. ‘Little butterflies, they are,’ thought Giladan as he laughed with them.

Naar stood, giving a hand up to her mother. Her father waved her off, grumbling good naturedly as always that he could do it himself. The man and children drew near, and Nasr stepped forward to give a word of greeting.

Giladan listened courteously as he was welcomed, then pushing back his cloak behind his shoulders he began to greet them in kind and tell them of his mission. There was a collective gasp as he did so, bringing his formal announcement from the King to an abrupt halt. A look of puzzlement crept on his face as they pointed to the insignia he wore on his tunic – the White Tree, reminding them of their own Baobab they murmured, crowned with seven five-pointed stars . . . then, the questions began . . .

Had the Shadow gone now from the North? Was the Eye defeated? Who had done this? Was it the man of the five-pointed star? And more tumbled out in rapid succession. Giladan held up his hands, begging for respite. ‘How do you know all this,’ he asked, amazed at their questioning and surprised most by the fact that they seem to have expected him.

It was Qamar who answered him, speaking of their own battle against the darkness, and how they had prevailed, and then withdrawn for this long time now from the outreaching hand of the Shadow. At her words, Nasr’s eyes grew clouded remembering those who had fallen on the battlefield.

‘Tell her the story,’ piped in the little twins, urging their grandmother on. ‘Tell her about your Mami.’

‘Yes,’ urged Giladan, bidding them all be seated, as he took a place close to them, attentive to their words. Qamar looked at Nasr, and he gestured at her, saying, ‘Yes, tell him.’ She spoke quietly of her mother, speaking without embroidery about her life, about the sort of woman she was, and the signs she had seen in the bones she threw that had at first frightened her, then brought her hope. She spoke of the Man her mother had seen in the patterns she had thrown. The one who would come from the North, growing larger and stronger beneath the sign of the five-pointed star, as the pattern of the Eye grew smaller. It brought assurance to her that darkness would not prevail against the light, despite their numbers and their threats. And with this hope the tribesmen were rallied to hold their own against the Priestess and her army.

‘What happened to her?’ asked the King’s messenger, wanting to meet this woman, to let her know that her hope had not been misplaced, that Elessar, himself, bore the name of ‘Hope’ and had been victorious beneath the banner of the White Tree and Stars. The Shadow was defeated, the dark driven back until only a small remnant remained, like starving crows picking at the long gone remains of battle. Qamar did not answer him, her throat gone suddenly dry. It was little Meelah, her voice clear in the silence that had fallen, who spoke up. ‘She fought against the Eye, and she died . . . keeping us all safe.’

_________________________________________________

Giladan spent a fortnight with the Baobab, meeting also with the Painted Sands as they passed near the village. When it was time for him to leave he was loaded down with gifts for himself and gifts for the King and His Queen. Beautiful basketry from all the clans of the tribe was packed onto his horse leaving scarce room for him to ride. He would be making his way back toward Gondor, he told them, his time of service almost complete.

Meelah accompanied him out of the village, as she had seen him in. All questions and smiles and sparkling laughter. Her eyes flashing with the bounty of her life in the bright morning of his departure. He dropped to one knee, before her as he said good-bye, his grey eyes meeting her dark brown ones.

‘It has indeed been a pleasure to have met you, m’Lady Meelah.’

Giladan rose and mounted up, turning his horse northwest, in the direction of the Great Sea. Meelah stood for a while waving at him, watching his figure shrink into the distance as she fingered the silver coin he had given her – the imprint of King Elessar on one side, the Tree and Stars on the other. ‘Come spend it in Gondor one day, little one,’ he had told her. ‘I will,’ she said, holding it high above her head, letting the sun catch its shiny surface and throw sparkles on the ground.

Hands on hips, she watched as he dipped out of site behind a low rise, a small cloud of dust the only reminder that he had passed. An afterthought, almost, she called out to him in a clear voice.

‘Meelah is the name my Paw-paw gave me. Jamílah is how you will know me in Gondor . . . Jamílah, of the Bush Lizard clan.’

Turning, she ran back toward the village and the day that stretched out before her.