The sun blazed down on the parched road with the force of a mighty host battering down the gates of a beleaguered city, weapons gleaming and bloodlust in their eyes, hammering again and again against splintering timber eager for whatever plunder lies within.
Even the term road was somewhat ambiguous, it was little more than a dirt trail pocked with the odd fissure and crack. If it saw more than the occasional shepherd or mayhap a roaming goat in a year, that would no doubt have been considered a frightful excess by the locals. Assuming there were any, of course, there was nothing anywhere for what seemed like miles around.
An expanse of sun-caked savanna that went on and on and on far beyond the site of mortal men. Just an all-encompassing, oppressive nothing.
Imagine the peculiarity, then, of a lone figure on horseback who was gradually making its way along the derelict trail.
The horse itself was clearly a fine mount, despite the indignities of the bridle and saddle. Chestnut brown and dappled white with a long midnight black mane that cascaded down an elegant neck. Though said neck was bent low, the chestnut hide coated with dust and filth and stalwart flanks heaving heavier than they should be for such a well-bred beast. Dread thirst had truly begun to extract its toll on the creature.
Its rider looked to be in better shape, protected as they were from the worst of the heat by their loose-fitting beige robes and headwraps. Only their eyes were truly visible, pricks of luminescent scarlet fixed firmly on the near distance. Perhaps too determinedly, for the dead silence of the landscape was soon shattered by a high-pitched scream as the mare's fetlock became trapped in a hitherto unnoticed pit. The beast’s momentum twisted the joint painfully and it quickly gave out with an eyewatering snap.
The robed rider could barely throw themselves clear as the once proud mount collapsed into a writhing pile of horseflesh and shrieks, throwing up a thick cloud of dust and dirt. Coughing, the rider steadily got to their feet brushing themselves down as best they could, winces of pain indicating exactly where they had fallen.
Staggering over to the fallen mare, whose shrieks had now died down to a mewling whimper somehow even more offensive to the ears, the rider appraised the damage done. Even a cursory glance to the mangled fetlock though soon spelled out any possibility of continuing and so the rider- with some difficulty- knelt beside the creature, stroking its dark mane gently with one hand while the other reached into their voluminous robes. Murmuring soft words of comfort, the rider’s hand shot out with a dull flash as a curved dagger drove deep into the animal’s throat.
The beast thrashed wildly as the blade tore across its gullet and blood gushed out into the trail, staining the parched surface a deep red. Such effort was short-lived, however, and soon the thrashing stopped; the once-fine specimen breathing it’s last.
The rider remained there on their knees for a heartbeat or two before sighing deeply and removing their face covering. Thus revealed, the figure was shown to be a fairly young man with a close-cropped dark beard and a small scar on his nose. He examined the faltering blood flow from the carcass’ neck before thrusting his hand into the gaping wound. The man then raised his blood-drenched fingers to his exposed forehead, whispering a dirge-like chant as he did, and slowly began running his middle and index down his lean face, down past his closed eyes and all the way to his bearded chin, leaving lines of gore as they travelled.
With this done, the rider began the arduous task of unstrapping the mare’s saddlebags and, hoisting them over his shoulder with a grimace, he continued down the trail.
Hours passed and the rider continued to walk, the vicious sun only now starting to climb down from its apex in the crystalline sky.
The twin trails of blood that marred his face had long since clotted and cracked in the heat, much like his lips which had become covered with spittle and flecks of white. He knew he was in trouble; sweat had stopped running down his brow, having hardened into crusted scales, and his heartbeat was beginning to thump louder and louder in his chest.
Any true son or daughter of the Iberizad knew to recognize the signs of dehydration long before it would get to this stage. To the rider’s dismay, however, his waterskins had burst when his mount had collapsed and- despite having long ago been taught the ways of finding it- he could find no water in this barren place. Just nothing, nothing, and the trail.
More time passed and the rider could sense that his was running out. His arms felt like they were turning to lead, and it was getting harder and harder to put one moccasined foot in front of the other.
Soon, the man’s right leg finally gave out sending him sprawling to the ground in a cloud of thick dust, much as his mare had done hours before. The irony was not lost on the rider, who could only lament that there was no one to give him the mercy he had gifted the animal. He once again reached into his robe, clasping the handle of his dagger determinedly and prepared for Them.
Then he saw it.
Seemingly emerging from the dust itself, the rider could suddenly see a large wooden structure that was totally out of place in the surrounding expanse but only a few mere meters away. It looked…raggedly? Like a mélange of different buildings that had mean mashed together by a bored child, standing at least three stories tall. The rider couldn’t make out much in his current state but could clearly see a conical tower rising from the back end and by the entrance.
An animal trough.
The rational part of the rider’s mind told him that this had to be a lie. Some twisted illusion conjured from half-baked remembrances brought on by thirst. Such things were known to happen in the Great Desert, tricks played on the faithful by vengeful spirits or so claimed the village Sarda.
But he didn’t care.
Unable to get back to his feet, the rider soon found himself crawling towards the miraculous building, dragging himself forward with what remained of his strength. Unbeknownst to him, the rider had resumed his chanting as the dust stung his eyes and assaulted his throat. That didn’t matter, though, all that did was even the scantest hope of survival.
He dragged and dragged and dragged, ignoring the tearing of his own robes and his own bleeding and broken fingernails, until he could see the rusted metal trough before him. With the last of his reserves, the rider launched himself towards it praying to The Two that he hadn’t been deceived.
He felt the water before he saw it, warm and turgid, but nonetheless better than the sweetest honey or richest wine. A smile on his face, the rider let the blackness take him.
-----
The next thing he knew he was slowly coming to in a thick and comfortable chair and for a moment the rider wondered if he had moved on to the Kerenzian Halls? For a moment he was elated that The Lord of the Cosmos had considered his death a pious one, a notion that was quickly disabused when he remembered where he had last been.
Whatever remaining notions that this was indeed the afterlife, however, fled like a Atelab beast before hounds when the rider noticed the beaming figure standing above him.
“Good, you’re awake!”
The rider’s hands went automatically to the armrests to propel himself up, but the movement sent a sharp pain through his right side, and he found himself sinking into the chair once more.
“Ah, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” The figure said still smiling. “You were in quite the state when I found you. Damn near drowned in the trough, absolutely covered in bruises.”
His blurred vision gradually starting to clear, the rider took a good look at his erstwhile savior. He was male and quite a tall one at that, reaching nearly six feet in height. He was lanky rather than big, however, but had a little bit of a paunch. His features, though, were somewhat of a mystery; the strange man had hair as dark as any Kersi or Birthar but his dark hazel eyes marked him as a alien to the Iberizad. Despite that, however, his Kersian was flawless with barely a hint of an accent.
The rider must’ve been staring for too long, however, because the tall man’s smile wavered slightly.
“Oh, don’t worry, you have nothing to fear. Here.” Reaching towards a wider chair to the side, the tall man produced a curved object wrapped in cloth and handed it over gingerly. The rider was puzzled for a second before recognizing what it was. Hands trembling somewhat, he removed the bindings revealing a curved tulwar.
“I found it a few meters away from you, it seemed important.” The tall man’s grin resumed. “Returned as found, we’re all friends here.”
Grasping the hilt, the rider edged the blade from its scabbard and quickly examined the markings above the cross guard. Breathing a silent sigh of relief, he re-sheathed the blade and nodded.
“You have my thanks for saving me, stranger.” The rider’s voice was little more than a croak, and his throat burned like it has been sliced with a thousand tiny daggers, but he could still make himself understood. “So you do not think me rude or my people ignorant of the Sacral laws of Hospitality, I offer you my name as well.” He moved to stand but a fresh wave of pain made him reconsider, settling instead for sitting up. “I am Tiraz bir Tis of the Bithar.” Tiraz raised his middle and index fingers to his forehead, but this time extended his arm outwards. “The blessings of The Two Who Are One be upon you for your kindness.”
The tall man accepted the blessing with a nod. “Hospitality, yes, interesting. Then you may call me Xenios, Tiraz bir Tis, and I bid you welcome to our humble little establishment. With a hint of flair Xenios gestured to their surroundings. “Is there anything you’d like to drink?”
