Terror in the Sand, A New Face

The attack on the camp came in the middle of the night and without warning. Chrys was fast asleep, his head resting on Ahri's broad chest, his dreams had been fretful and kept his sleep light. He kept dreaming of a massive river, ancient and wide, a gentle meandering giant the color of purest green. The river would always be dammed up and burst its boundaries, wreaking destruction and terror in its impassive flood. There were several variations on that theme throughout the night, and on the last iteration he fully awoke, his white eyes fluttering open and looking around the small tent. Was that a noise?

The wind of the great desert washed around them, he could see the fires at the perimeter of camp guttering dimly beneath its mighty gusts. There, a sound of a breath being expelled quickly, almost lost in the greater din of howling wind. One by one, the lights outside began to be snuffed out, leaving Chrys and Ahri in utter darkness. For his part, Ahri slept blissfully, not stirring at all as every hair on the back of Chrys' neck stood on end and he found himself suddenly hyper aware of a nearby danger.

As a child, they had learned (often through terrible experience) to trust instinct when something simply felt wrong. Often those that seemed the kindest were those most deserving of fear. Scarlett had once passed up a wonderful smelling meal and sweets at age eight, her hairs had stood up just as they were now. When the watch finally bothered to check, they found at least ten other local orphans dead or dying in cages in his basement. Chrys had never forgotten that feeling, and he felt it again now.

He felt Ahri's steady even breathing as his chest gave a mighty expansion, sucking in a huge breath. Chrys noted this and looked down, and as Ahri exhaled just as deeply, Chrys watched a faintly glowing cloud leave Ahri's body. The cloud was sucked away through the myriad small holes and vents in the tent, and as it left Ahri grew cold and dry to the touch. Mouth open in a silent scream, Chrys watched the chest dessicate and dry, the flesh around his pearl and perfect teeth pulled taut, his gorgeous face left a dried and leathery mask of terror.

It was then Chrys was aware that he was glowing faintly. Rather his cloak was; balled up at the foot of the cot he'd just shared with a corpse. Fully entering the lunatic calm that most experience in times of great trauma, he sprang into action, pulling on his trousers quickly and rummaging through the pile of discarded clothes, trying to cover the glow as best as he could. From outside, the wind howled and roared, and its angry maw formed into soft voice flowing around and through the tent. Chrys smelled decayed flesh and rotting vegetation so strongly it made him gag.

"Where are you my love…?"

Chrys began to burrow into the sand beneath the tent in a panic. Cool sand began to cake beneath his nails and he pulled the cloak over him, its glow facing inward, away from prying eyes. The threads of the intricate beading of flowers twinkled and pulsed with a faint green hue beneath the sand illuminating his face, eyes wide with terror as he pleaded with the universe.

"Pleaseohplease. Just go away. Don't see me, just don't see me…" When he closed his eyes, he found he could still see the threads' light imprinted on his retina. They resembled a great spider web to him as he dug deeper into the sand. Close to him, he heard the cot creak as if something had moved beside him. He dug deeper and more panicked, thinking of the scarab beetle of the desert, fleeing the light of day to find the cool embrace of wet sand. The wind seemed to die away for a moment, its howl lessening for a heartbeat.

Ahri's desiccated and still warm hand dove into the sand barely missing his hip. Chrys could smell death and carrion, catching a glimpse of the attack, he saw cracked and dried skin, saw white-yellow bones beneath it. Horrified at what he saw, Chrys instinctively reached out with the gifts Mae had taught him, releasing his will in a burst of fear and revulsion. Nothing happened.

The clawed hand scrabbled at him again, painfully drawing blood on his collarbone and neck as Chrys writhed away in terror. Above him, Ahri's vacant face open its mouth hungrily and leaned closer. He closed his eyes, unwilling to watch what he knew was surely about to happen, devoured by the undead in a magic storm. Ruefully, he thought to himself that he might have had better luck with the Black Masks.

It was then that something strange happened. Mae's cloak flared brightly green for a second, Chrys smelled water and felt lightheaded for a second, his mind again recalling the scarab as it hid from its prey. He had a sensation of digging, burrowing, all around him the cool scent of watery clay and sand, all of it connected to the great emerald river.

As he began to lose consciousness, he thought he'd heard that whispered voice carried on the last breaths of Ahri and the rest of the caravan, "I will find you, my love...."

*****

Blood and stained glass.

The great spires of the City of Galantina soared high above Sagacious' memories, and as fondly as he recalled the great Courtyard at the University, the memories of Galantina were forever imprinted with the image of blood amidst the myriad colors of sunlight through stained glass.

"My baby. My Angel."

His mother's face, his earliest memories of her were all like that. Her smiling, matronly face beaming from upon high while he learned to read. Her crystal clear eyes wide with shock when the knife went into her chest…

"Shh, stay there until I get you."

The last words his Father ever spoke to him, hiding him beneath the floor in their small, ground level apartment. The Devils had come for him, he knew, because of his wings. Because of who he was. At six years old, he nodded silently, even as his father closed the trap door and replaced the rug. He could hear the bodies slamming against the door, could hear the wood splintering. He bit his lip and focused on trying to keep his tears quiet.

The exact words exchanged once the door gave way are mercifully gone from his memory, the sounds of angry interrogating tones followed by defiant answers left enough of an imprint. He closed his eyes and tried to block the other sounds, but they came to him in his dreams as he got older. His father's voice, silenced mid word, trailing off into a gurgle. His mother's cry, cut off as quickly and brutally.

He heard the deafening silence as the Devils left. Sagacious was a good boy, and he stayed silent and still for hours. Tears and urine filled the small cubby, but he was an obedient son and he dared not move until the sun came up. Golden light began to spill into the apartment through the slats in the floor so he could see it. His father was a glassmaker, and though they were not rich, they had installed gorgeous stained glass windows the year before, the envy of all the neighbors.

Through those leaded glass portals the sunlight became many coloured and fractured across the room, a phenomenon young Sagacious rather loved. But this morning, the only light that filtered into the cellar was scarlet. Even at that young of an age, he was a clever boy… but shock had taken him. It took him some time before he understood and accepted what he was seeing, and even longer still before he dared to venture forth to confirm what he knew in the pit of his stomach. The image of his parents' blood all over, the sigil drawn on the window in crimson. Blood everywhere.

Blood and stained glass.

Sagacious awoke, like he did most mornings, with a scream.