Terzogue sits up, his eyes widen open, cold sweat dripping off his face. His heart pounds furiously, and it takes him several moments to realize that he has drawn his blade, and buried the talons of his gauntlet deep into the wood of . When he feels for the hand, he finds nothing there.
It was just a dream.
Setting his sword back in its sheath, he wipes the cold sweat off his face. He is not in the jungle, but in a small space in the back of a wagon. He makes his way past the the crates and sacks to the exit, pushing the flaps open to find an endless stretch of road in the wagon’s wake. The road splits dunes composed of golden sand, sharing the blistering heat beating down on the world from the heavens. Seeing as the wagon isn’t moving, Terzogue hops out. The sands shift and swirl, making a most unwelcome hissing noise. A mild wind tugs at the ends of ruby and sapphire ribbons wrapped around Terzogue’s head.
“So you’re awake.”
Terzogue turns his attention to a man sitting against a wagon wheel. After a few moments, he nods, approaching the man. “I take it we are close?” he asks, folding his arms over his chest.
“As close as I can take you.” The man stands up, leaving the shade of his wagon to approach Terzogue. “It’s not just that I’m headed for the capital, but that, well, there’s a hundred places in the Realm of Darkness I’d rather visit than Staultista.”
“Only a hundred?” Terzogue grins at the man. “I understand, and thank you for taking me this far. Farewell, and safe travels.”
“Don’t worry about me,” the man says, “it’s you who I pray for.” Just as Terzogue turns around, the man snaps his fingers. “Here, take this.” He tosses a canteen to Terzogue, before grabbing the reins to the wagon’s horse.
Catching the canteen, Terzogue raises a brow. “I can’t pay for this.”
“It’s on me. In Siyerrod, water is life. I would hate to see your journey end in this forsaken corner of the world.” Giving a dismissive wave, the man climbs back onto his wagon and turns the horses leading it around. He starts back down the way the wagon came, leaving Terzogue alone in the merciless desert.
Terzogue turns around, and gathers his bearings. His search quickly bears fruit, as his eyes set on towering masses further down the road. His stepping careful in the sand, he travels towards them. His eyes search his surroundings again and again. Any breath could be his last in these sands. The stories he heard of travelers being swallowed whole by predators burrowed under the surface come swiftly to mind. It was as if the desert itself longed for flesh, not just its inhabitants. The most dangerous threat, however, is other men and women.
Spotting something further down the road, Terzogue approaches it. A worn, wooden beam is planted into the sands. Chained to it is the rotting remains of someone unfortunate enough to experience the cruelty of Staultista’s criminals firsthand. Dried blood cakes the flesh around his throat, and grime coats his whole body. His killers did not even leave his clothes behind.
Shaking off the impression of the rotting effigy, Terzogue continues towards the city. Drawing closer, he can define the masses as buildings. Despite its size, the city seems to be a husk of its former glory. The details of every building are worn away by time and exposure to the bite of sandstorms notorious in Siyerrod. Once-tall remnants of a city wall leave now hinder no traveler.
Terzogue walks through where a portion of the wall has collapsed. Paying less attention to the city’s appearance, his focus now shifts towards those whom the city harbors. He continues onto the streets, finding a distinct lack of life. The cobblestone streets are uneven, in terrible need of repairs. The sound of glass smashing with a cry grabs his attention. Drawn towards the noise, Terzogue rests his main hand on the hilt of his sword. He would not risk being unprepared for a fight. He comes across the hunched form of a man, if one may call it that.
Countless burns reside on flesh that looks more like a thin cover for the skeleton inside. A few locksof blonde hair try in vain to cover the scarred flesh covering the skull. A pile of refuse sits before him, surrounded by shattered shards of glass.
Terzogue approaches the man slowly. He opens his mouth to speak, but takes a step back and draws his blade as the man shrieks.
“Back!” Standing protectively over the pile of junk, he draws a crude shank. “This isn’t yours, no, no yours. This one told other one this, yes he did, and other one didn’t listen. He is a dead boy, yes he is!” He inches closer to Terzogue jabbing wildly. He stops when a sharp whistle comes from above. He looks up, his eyes wide. Before he can say a word, an arrow sinks into his thigh. He collapses, letting out a silent cry of pain as he stares at the shaft of an arrow, lodged between his ribs. With a few violent jerks, he eases onto the ground, unmoving.
Terzogue looks up to find the gleam of a metal arrowhead. His body tenses, as his eyes rest on the shooter, standing atop a balcony overlooking the streets.
“Relax,” the archer says, his aim unwavering. “That wretch had plenty of warnings, and I don’t need him being your first impression of our abode.”
“A little late to change that,” Terzogue says, remaining still. “I intend to cause no trouble here.”
“That’s not your decision to make.” The archer lowers his aim, though only slightly. “Why are you here? Travelers head to the capital, not this refuge.”
“I’m looking for a woman.”
“You came to the wrong city, if you’re looking for carnal pleasures.” The archer chuckles. “Who is this woman?”
“Avaliel.” Terzogue stays on his toes, unsure what reaction he would get.
“Why do you need to see her?” The archer’s casual tone is replaced with a much more stern one.
“I cannot--”
“You can tell me, and you will, else my arrow will burrow into your skull to find the answer.” The archer’s arrow points at Terzogue once more. Not a word is said for a moment, and the archer snarls. “Poor choices, poor results.” However, before his arrow can fly, the balcony gives way under the archer. He falls into the sand with a soft thud, groaning softly.
Standing over the archer, Terzogue pins the bow under his boot. He glares at the archer, resting the fang of his blade against the archer’s cheek. He glances around, finding the corpse of the knife-wielding man, and nobody else. “If there’s another surprise I should know of, now is the time to tell me.” Kneeling down, Terzogue shows his gauntlet to the archer. “If you don’t, my talons will burrow into your skull to find the answer. Should you mistake me for a man of gullibility, then you are gravely mistaken.”
“Then what does that make you?” the archer asks, glaring at Terzogue.
“A man that will pretend that you threatening me never happened. I’m also the man who demands retribution for the endangerment of my life.” Pushing a talon against the archer’s forehead, Terzogue simply drags it across, leaving a long, thin cut in its wake. “I’ll ask one more time. Where is Avaliel?”
“Like I’d tell you.” The archer cracks a grin. “If you’re going to catch the Phantom of Staultista, you need to find her yourself. She could be anywhere, by now.”
“Then where will she go?”
“I will not waste more of my breath on you,” the archer snarls. “I recognize the clothes, how you hesitate not to inflict pain for your own sake, how stupid you are to think that I will know where Avaliel is. You’re one of those Oasean savages, aren’t you?” One of his hands drifts upward, towards his own head.
Recognizing that the archer is going for an arrow, Terzogue pins the hand and plunges his talons into the archer’s back, a howl of pain echoing throughout the empty city. “You’re trying my patience.”
“Go the way I came!” the archer says, desperation cracking through his voice. “It will take you to her, I promise!”
“Very well. Run. Get out of here.” Terzogue stands up, letting the archer get back onto his feet.
“Thank you,” the archer says over and over, slowly getting up. Without warning, he whirls around, a dagger in hand. Before he can even take a stab at Terzogue, however, he impaled by Terzogue’s sword. In shock, he drops the dagger, staring down at the grievous wound, wide-eyed.
“Fool,” mutters Terzogue, before ripping the blade out from its flesh sheath. He watches the archer collapse, gazing into the sky with his final moments. Then, as the life drains from the archer’s eyes, Terzogue sheathes his sword, taking a moment to look at the scene before him. It would have troubled him, to have both of these men die for nothing. But, in such a place as this, death may have been the only mercy they have had.
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