Prowling the Desert

Fighting in the desert had become a brutish, primitive thing. Each blow was haphazard, sloppy, hacking motion with whatever weapon fit the wielder’s hand; and each encounter was a squabble won only through sheer strength and dumb luck.

The four brigands had seen such a scene played out time and time again, surviving through the two qualities that attributed to their immeasurable prowess. Yet when the lone thin form slipped over the dune and skid down to their camp they saw something different – a danger alien in every way, like a poisonous insect or venomous serpent.

The individual didn’t seem human – he was too slender, too agile. The pointed ears tucked beneath his hood hinted at an elven heritage; though, perfect in nearly every way, they were merely confirmation of an obvious suspicion.

But his complexion alone was not the only thing that rang of perfection. Before his feet left the sand his hands were on the move, twisting beneath his cloak to pull a pair of slender swords from beneath their folds. The weapons weren’t just elegant in their craft, but elegant in the very aura they held – a tangible thing that shone as blue as the open desert sky.

When the first blows came they were not the sloppy swipes and lunges of thugs. The elf’s battlefield was not some corral, not some pen where hulking animals could smash mindlessly into one another. Combat was a canvas, a work of art – and, the swordsman, an artist.

Two silver brushstrokes swept across the tapestry, leaving behind a dusting of red. In the blades’ wake a pair of azure trails cut along the sand; and, in the trails’ wake, a pair of bodies dropped. Again the vigilante proved himself to be an unfamiliar, unnatural thing: there was no pummeling, no long and pronounced end to the men, but instead only a twist of the wrist backed by a malignant will.

Hesitation wasn’t a weapon the elf could hold in his hands, but it was one he wielded nevertheless. And, as both remaining bandits stopped to take in the scene, it was hesitation that cut down the third man. The pause was perhaps that of a second – but it was enough for a sword to slide between his ribs.

The fourth and final brigand had all the time to plan – retribution, in a sense, for the loss of his companions. Wisdom and sensibility demanded a retreat, an opportunity to flee and fight another day. Pride and blindness argued he stand and fight, attempt to reclaim dignity and secure dominance.

Determinedly he ground his feet into the sand, his axe held high above his head. A moment later only one foot remained rooted to the dirt – and, a moment after that, the bandit was a sprawling, whimpering heap curled at the base of a dune.

There were more than just three dead and one wounded in the camp, however: just as the elf had preyed on the brigands, the brigands had preyed on a pair of hapless merchants. But, checking pulses, it was evident that any help he could offer would be meaningless.

“Quiet down.” The elf ordered as the sole surviving ruffian gave an extra emphatic groan. Turning his back to the man he scoured through the remains of the tradesmen’s cart, tucking several jars of preservatives and small packs of dried meat into his pack.

After the wagon’s skeleton had been picked clean he acknowledged the bandit’s wails. Sheathing one sword, his free hand hauled the outlaw up by his collar – the other quick to press the blade of his exposed weapon to his adversary’s throat.

“Let’s get on a first name basis?” the swordsman suggested. “I’m Steven. You’re…?”

“Derrick!”

“Alright Derrick. I assume you like that leg?”

The thug’s scraggly beard bobbed up and down in an emphatic nod.

“Then use one of those arms and point me towards the nearest town, if you please?”

“Are you going to kill me?”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

Relieved, a quivering wrist jabbed towards the setting sun in the west. Faint, like a single droplet of water at the bottom of a well, the dying rays caught the tiny speck of civilization cowering against the horizon.

“It’s called Ford!” Derrick insisted, hoping to enhance his credibility. “It is a border town between the Eastern Empire and Surris. They’ve got a river there – more water than you can possibly imagine!”

“Thanks,” Steven returned, setting his informant back against the dune. He turned to go – but Derrick’s cries did not end there.

“You’re… leaving?”

“Yes?”

“You said you wouldn’t kill me! I can’t make it back into town… I’ll die!”

“I said that I wouldn’t kill you. Whatever else is out here? It can have you – I don’t care. It is a vicious cycle, this place: you were a hunter, a scourge that preyed upon the roads and the people that walked them. Unfortunately, something more powerful than you prowled the desert – and it seems that something caught up with you.”

There were more protests, more objections. To the swordsman they were all but inconsequential; to the vultures, however, they were a welcoming call – a beckoning hand prompting them towards the dinner table. Patience held them at bay only until Steven found the road; then they found their meal.

And so, for Derrick, the vicious cycle of life in the Eastern Empire ended. It was one born and nurtured through the territory’s sheer size: there was too much room for governing eyes to watch. There was too much room for civil unrest, too much room for lawlessness, and too much room for unchecked greed. Blind spots ran rampant behind the empire’s sprawling borders – like blotches of ink smeared across the page of a book, or swabs of pastel scattered across a painting.

But the same borders that contained the chaotic soup served to cool and calm it. Over half of the territory touched on a single border – one that connected the empire neither with the roaming bands of tradesmen and marauders of the north nor the monarchial kingdom of Surris in the west. The largest border was the shore – and the ocean connected the Eastern Empire with every other port city and seafaring nation in the world, be they further along the same coast or cast on another island or continent.

And it was from the Land Hidden in the Tempest that Steven had traveled. His home was one of turmoil, war and conquest burning across the landscape in a violent inferno that threatened to char all who dwelt beneath the eternal storm. Yet it, too, bordered the sea; and when cries for help reached his ears from the greater continent, he moved to answer them in the hopes of answering his people’s own.

Perhaps he would find an artifact on the alien continent? Perhaps he could discover wealth that would off balance the stalemate the war had become? Perhaps he would simply find peace, quiet, and tactical clarity for a time?

But whatever he had sought when he had embarked, by the time his seventh day in the Eastern Empire fully waned and the echoes of Derrick’s caterwauling faded in the distance, he realized he had found only more bloodshed.

Faint stars shone softly overhead as the elf trudged further down the sandy road. But they were his sole traveling companions amid the vast sea of dunes: even the moon had abandoned him, hidden behind the dark veil that marked the end of its monthly cycle. And perhaps that shadowed veil foreshadowed a long, lonely walk to Ford – one that would last until the sun crept back over the horizon.

But the shadows of more than just the moon were passing overhead. Subtly whole groups of stars would twinkle at once, shifting in and out of reality as something passed over their distant faces; and always, just after such a stellar darkening, a light wind would pick up on the ground – the gust of some passing sentience wafting down from the heavens. Perhaps the night sent the creature out of sympathy, sad to see the elf walk the desert alone? Perhaps it was a curse meant only to continue the ravenous cycle of prey and predator that gripped the war-ravaged land?

But dragons had always been creatures of myth and prophecy – so perhaps one’s appearance could be both? And as she set down across the road she seemed truly to be an act of the gods – her natural armor like the scales of fate, her claws and teeth the strings that maintained its will.

Steven drew his blades again – though, this time, he also drew his wits. The new arrival wasn’t some passing bandit, but a creature that both deserved and demanded more careful attention.

She was beautiful, almost majestic in a frightening way. Long, flowing white hair cascaded down around slender shoulders – attributes of a frame that was unmistakably humanoid. Yet she was far, far from human: before even the haze of shrouding black scales marked her heritage, her size served to distance her from the familiarity of man or elven kind.

From her feet to the top of her head, the dragon stood at well over fifty feet tall; and, even crouched, it was a miracle her burning red gaze could meet the swordsman’s own at eye level.

And yet despite the scale there was an air of civility about her – conformity to culture and an adherence to intelligence that dispelled any pretense of the primordial that lingered about her countenance. The primary component of this dignified air was her attire: a two piece leather-like garment encircled both her chest and her waist, tightly and almost seductively clutching at her skin, hiding the other “humanoid” qualities that lingered beneath. But her demeanor, too, rejected the influence of a bestial mind: she did not hulk over to glower and slobber like an animal, but instead erected her frame into a dignified crouch – one that allowed her to survey the scene from a cool and collective vantage point.

Just as Steven drew his swords so, too, did she draw her resources to the forefront. Before his weapons were out of their sheaths her wings were at his sides, blotting out the starlight to encircle the pair like the canvas of a breathing tent. Her tail trailed through the sand, poised to strike like a desert cobra should the need arise; and her claws, one on the end of each dexterous digit, tightened in anticipation to rend or slash as the need could call.

Steven, in the past, had transformed battlefields through his work. Yet this time, his opponent could do so beforehand with a mere thought – namely because she was indeed as large as the battlefield itself.

“So…” she purred, her voice melodic and jovial. It was almost playful in a sense – and the notion that the predator was toying with him was one that was less than comforting.

“Let’s get on a first name basis? I’m Embyr. You’re…?”

“Steven.”

“Alright Steven. I assume you don’t want any trouble?”

He cringed but affirmatively dipped his head.

“Then,” she recommended “I’d put those swords away.”

It was the defining moment of the conflict – the choice between fight and flight. Wisdom and sensibility demanded submissiveness – and, in doing so, an opportunity to survive and fight another day. Pride and blindness argued he stand and fight, attempt to reclaim dignity and secure dominance.

And when the dull glow of both blades disappeared back into their scabbards, the rebellious lust for combat was shrewdly quelled. But, in its place, there was only a demand for trust – one that hoped he had correctly placed his bet in the gamble. He was unable to fight the dragon; and he hoped she did not want to fight him.

“The smell of blood brought me to you.” She explained. A claw tilted back down the road – down nearly an hour’s worth of steps, back to where a lone wagon played host to half a dozen carcasses and another half a dozen vultures.

“Usually,” Embyr went on “I’m the one that draws blood. But… perhaps I’m not the only one looking for men in the desert? You, like I, am a hunter of man. Unfortunately, something more powerful than you prowled the desert – and it seems that something caught up with you.”

The dragon paused, regarding the elf with a flash of unsated curiosity. Her index finger, still gesturing along the road, turning upwards; and from her mouth crept a long, lithe tongue, its edge sliding hungrily along the digit.

“Are you going to kill me?”

She moved her finger to her chin, tapping at it thoughtfully. Her eyes glinted again; and, when the spark faded, her claw made its final shift – this time to point towards Steven himself.

“I don’t find it fitting,” she mused “for such a reputable hunter to die as prey. Assuming, of course, that you are indeed a reputable hunter?”

“Is there some way I can provide you with proof?”

Again she seemed lost in thought – though it seemed, in whole, a façade. Her finger never wavered, her gaze never faltered. She didn’t need to find her quarry an answer, only needed to find enjoyment in her own little show.

“They say,” Embyr intoned mystically “that you can tell a lot about a person from their… taste. A dragon can, at least. Tell me, Steven… would I taste blood on your hands? Would I taste determination on your brow? Would I taste struggle on your muscles? I don’t have to kill to find out… I require only a taste.”

A shiver shook his shoulders; then a submissive snarl swept across his face. He nodded; but, instead of committing to her act, the dragon gave him a nod back.

“I’m not aiming to taste your weapons.” She reminded him chidingly.

His hands slipped beneath his cloak, removing both it and his belt. They slid to the dirt, leaving him vulnerable and exposed – and Embyr reveled in the ecstasy of power such a simple act had awarded her.

She bent lower, touching a knee to the earth. Her jaws parted, teeth sliding away to reveal the same inquisitive tongue that had temporarily exposed itself. Beyond were gums, saliva, and the ruffling and breath; and, beyond that, a jugular void shrouded in the secrecy of death.

His surrender wasn’t complete, however. She did not lift him from the ground, did not flaunt him above her maw or gulp him up in a decisive chomp. Instead Embyr rested her chin against the road, forcing Steven to take the step towards his end fate.

Hesitation was weakness, a combative commodity existent only in imagination. Steven did not hesitate; but, as the decisive step rose and fell, it was met with a derogatory grunt.

Scowling he brought his foot back; and, under Embyr’s authoritative glare, removed both boots. Her wishes fulfilled, he again set to the task at hand; and, with some difficulty, crossed the fang-rimmed threshold and into the cavernous mouth beyond.

Humidity and fetid breath became his new traveling companions as he slick and slid beneath the roofing palette. Saliva ran freely up to his ankles, draining down around him like rivulets of water from jaw, tooth, and gum alike. The organic pool was comparable to an oasis – albeit one that more readily promised death than any sort of absolution from the scalding desert air.

But as his confidence wavered, the guardian of that oasis began to stir. Embyr’s tongue rose, seeming to regard him with a life of its own. From its surface drained a perpetual flow of spittle – drips and dregs that pooled around his feet with newfound intensity.

But just as if he wondered if he would soon be drowned, he was strangled. The tongue lurched forward, wrapping itself around his body. The elf’s arms were pinned to his sides, his legs locked together as if in rigor mortis; and even then the muscle was spared the room to sifts its edge through his hair, scrawling across its face to paint it with its shiny wake.

The pink serpent seemed to tire of its role after a time, however; and, with a nonchalant twist, the tongue cast the elf haphazardly against one of the dragon’s cheeks. There he was wedged somewhere between flesh and tooth, locked outside of the dragon’s mouth but denied freedom through her lips. Embyr was like a squirrel storing a snack for later – and Steven was the unfortunate nut.

But before the dragon decided either to bury or chomp down on her find, he was dragged into the interior of her maw one last time. Forcefully he was pressed against the roof of her mouth, drawing a pained grunt as his ribs were pushed to the breaking point. Slowly the saliva that had pooled around his wrists and ankles siphoned away, dragged beyond to an unspeakable place of darkness that lay beyond the huntress’s pointed molars; and, even more slowly, the tight grip on the elf was relinquished.

When Embyr finally released him he slid in a crumpled heap to the sand. Nothing was broken, nothing was damaged beyond recovery; yet everything was sore, and everything sought nothing more than relief.

“You taste like… mint.” She observed.

“And what does a hunter taste like?”

“Evidently? Mint.”

She laughed – cackled, it seemed. But it was not the snide laughter of a temptress but instead almost recognition of accomplishment – perhaps even that of a friend in the aftermath of some joke.

“There was something else to it.” She noted. “A sort of… kick. You don’t get that ‘kick’ by being soft. I’ve experienced it in knights and mercenaries – but not in all of them. Only those that truly proved to be a challenge – only those that truly know what it is to fight, to struggle… to hunt.

“You seem to have a life full of challenges – both before you and behind you.” She surmised. “So I’ll take on a challenge of my own: the challenge not to eat you. It is tempting – you have a rather exotic flavor, and I’ve already found I like it.”

“Thank you,” he said, managing a slight laugh of his own.

“I don’t know where you’re from, elf.” She said. As she spoke her wings folded back, spreading out towards the starlit heavens. She rose from her crouch, stretching to her full height to tower over the ocean of sand like an obsidian lighthouse.

“But,” she went on “I hope whatever you’re hunting here… that you find it. And know: for better or worse, I’ll be prowling the desert beside you. But stay sharp – the next time we hunt the same prey, we may not come out as equals.”

She was in the air, taking off in a flurry of sand and a spray of dust. The stars as one twinkled as her silhouette flew past; and after several minutes the echoing breeze of her departure swept along the ground.

Steven wasted little time rearming himself and returning to the long march at hand. Yet he also wasted little to no effort convincing himself he would never meet Embyr again – that, for better or worse, seemed part of his destiny.

But, when at last dawn broke against the sky, and the shadow of Ford’s gate passed overhead, he had a rather interesting epiphany. Embyr had made it more than clear that, should they meet again, they would not emerge from the encounter as equals.

But perhaps he could emerge the top predator? After all, there was no telling what one could learn prowling the desert.