SIDERIA

The sand stretches endless in all directions like a bronze loom rug, flowing in wisps, the baking sun seeping into its every pore. Ethen shades his eyes and scans the emptiness, dotted only by stoic pillars of solid black stone that jut out at angles on the horizon. There is no vegetation — no evidence of any organic ability to thrive.

The fading sunlight casts long and sailing shadows across the vast desert. Ethen and Lukas eye the only visible settlement; a rout of constellated buildings huddled under one of the jagged onyx towers. The stones that rise like giant sentinels are etched with massive glyphs, communicating the landmarks in unknown signals, a mosaic history of Sideria.

As they approach the outskirts of the first village, not but an hour ride from the border, they encounter a bustling bazaar. The air is thick with the scent of spices, and the colorful awnings flutter in the sporadic wind. Traders' voices wrap around the sandstone buildings and porticos, their conversation a vibrant testament to the lively barter culture. A merchant haggles with a customer over the price of a large jar of water, the most precious commodity in this arid land. A spirit of shared survival bonds the people and deletes superficial differences. They cluster around the village's central plaza, exchanging resources, sharing tales, and ensuring the survival of their community.

In the shifting shadows of the sand, time seems to move differently. Isolation has left the scape preserved, like a fossil in an amber resin. As they pass terraces built into the dunes, Lukas marvels at the ingenious irrigation systems, opening up to the sky like flowers. He explains to Ethen how the Siderians capture the rare rainfall, how they use centuries-old farming techniques to bring forth life in the heart of the desert. Ethen can't help but admire their resilience.

In the village, the locals gather to pay homage to their desert deities. Ethen watches as they dance and sing around a glass totem, their movements narrating old tales. The festivities are an ongoing celebration of life, a defiance against the relentless desert. Lukas points out the sand-runners darting between buildings, their lean bodies moving swiftly, honored with the only canteens in sight. These fleet-footed messengers are a symbol of the delicate balance of life here, the need for constant vigilance, and the ever-present threat that lies just beyond the safety of their hubs of sandstone.

Despite its harsh exterior, it is a place that pockets the rhythms of life, tradition, and a deep sense of community, where its inhabitants continue to thrive against the stew of hostility they are seeped in.

The same might not be said of visitors.

Beside him, Lukas fidgets with the leather reins of his sand horse, uncharacteristically quiet. He runs a hand over his balding head, wiping away beads of sweat. The man Ethen called "father" for the first time only days ago is still a stranger after their decades apart, but their companionship is already everything. What the coming days of travel will reveal, neither can anticipate.

With a click of his tongue, Ethen urges his mount towards the towering rock formation in the distance. The Outpost clerk had given vague directions towards the gateway town of Bryceton, their only lead in this aimless quest, and the only feasible introduction to the nation. Lukas' horse trudges after Ethen's, the arid ground crunching underfoot, each sand grain so quietly ancient as to have likely brushed against those characters in the region's mythologies.

As they ride, the sun inches lower in the pale sky, pouring vivid hues across the clouds. Ethen glances back at Lukas, seeing the colors dance across his furrowed brow. What doubts trouble the old man's mind? The past stretched barren behind them, but pointed possibility hovered on the horizon ahead. Somewhere beyond the next pillar, they would find traces of the missing Martha. Of this, Ethen was certain. They would navigate this desert together, perhaps reconciling the broken family ties along the way.

The pair arrive at the gates of Bryceton as the sun dips behind the rugged peaks, the sand sprawled before them with gold and crimson. Their entry into the village is met with veiled curiosity from the locals. From their mounts, Ethen and Lukas survey the small settlement, its modest buildings cast in the shadow of the towering rocks, carrying an eerie stillness in the cooling air.

Ethen looks towards Lukas, a questioning glance in his eyes. Lukas, in return, nods subtly, signaling him to proceed. He is no seasoned emissary, but it's Ethen's unspoken task to ask the forbidden questions. Taking a deep breath, they dismount and tie their horses to a wooden post before wandering into the crowd.

The villagers, mostly tradesmen and laborers, eye them with wariness. Ethen, carefully choosing his words, begins asking about Martha.

"We're looking for a woman. About this tall and striking features, goes by the name Martha. She is from the city. She may be teaching others about something called the Church of Oedipus, or 'the Church'. She may be talking a lot about a 'Mother-Goddess'. Anyone know of such a woman?"

The villagers squint and some go about their business. They don't seem to know.

"Do you speak our language?" Lukas asks plainly.

"Yer." One older man with a grey beard replies. "But we don't know nuthin' about a Mither-Gudduss." His drawl is thick and sticky like molasses on bread. "Got ya anything mer spercific?"

"Um…" Ethen starts. He looks at Lukas who is giving a dumbfounded face back. He nods again to encourage him.

"Well… she would be discussing things like… like… uh... " Ethen scratches the back of his head. Some in the crowd squint, incredulous at this bumbling stranger.

"… incest… between a… mother and… son…" Ethen sinks back into himself with each word pronounced.

"In-wha?" The elderly man asks.

"Incest." Ethen reiterates.

"Don't know nuthin' bout no incest." The old man scoffed.

Lukas looks over to Ethen, speaking as if to someone off the stage of a floundering play. "I don't think they know what that is, Ethen."

Ethen is indignant. "Why do I have to explain this? Why can't you?" He bickers.

"Me? You've already —" Lukas stops himself mid-phrase. "Ok alright, alright." He turns back to the small crowd. "Incest is… like… sex… you know…" He makes a mild thrusting motion to demonstrate over the communication gap. Ethen is mortified.

"We know what sex is, you coot." The old man snaps back.

"So incest is sex between a… mother… and a… son." Ethen finishes guardedly. The clarifications are met with grimaces, the villagers retreating from the topic like a wildfire.

One burly man, with a face like worn rubber, takes offense to their questions. His fist connects with Lukas's jaw before they can react. Ethen steps in front of Lukas, his hand reaching for the small knife on his belt, but Lukas signals him to hold back. Wiping a streak of blood from his mouth, Lukas manages a conciliatory smile. "Misunderstanding, friend. We're only looking for our kin. The boy's mother." More of the dwindling crowd reacts in disgust. "Seeking out his mother for such a thing…" One woman can be heard muttering to another as they scoot away. The burly man gives them an unreadable look before retreating back into the shadows of a nearby tavern. The crowd is gone. Lukas tends to his jaw with his palm.

"What the hell are yous goin' off spoutin' bout that fer, ya creeps? Ya came all this way to talk to us about that? Ya city folk get weirder and weirder."

Just as they're about to move on, a portly merchant approaches them. He leans heavily on a cane, an air of authority wafting off him in the cool dusk. "Heard you were asking 'bout some real upsetting subject matter." His voice is as rough as gravel. "You ain't the only ones. Somes came by talkin' and askin' the same stuff, not but a few days ago."

Ethen and Lukas exchange puzzled looks. "Just days ago?" Ethen asks, hope simmering in his chest.

"As sure as the Caravan's counter-clockwise 'round the Heartstone." Then, he squints at them, a speculative look in his eyes. "You ain't part of their lot, are ya?"

They deny it. The merchant chuckles, shaking his head. "Didn't think so." He taps his cane on the sand.

Lukas, curiosity piqued, leans forward. "How so?"

The merchant grins, revealing a missing front tooth. "Ya ain't armed to the teeth." His laughter fills the moonrise, ringing out into the silent desert as Ethen and Lukas share a worried glance, a foreboding unease boiling between them. As the merchant's laughter dies down, he follows up; "… would you like to be?"

Ethen steps forward, his gaze steady. "We are in need of more information." His voice carries the gravity of their quest. "What did these armed people want to know about this Martha?"

The merchant sobers, eyeing the pair thoughtfully. "Aye, one so figures you'd want to know more," he says, leaning on his cane. "It's gonna cost ya."

Ethen blinks a few times and plunges his hand into his shoulder bag. Out he pulls a few pieces of silver. "Will this do?"

He surveys the offering, shining like the dimming horizon, then gestures towards a nearby bench. "Sit." They gather around him. "They had asked about this Martha, inquiring her whereabouts see, and anyone she'd been in contact with too. Their leader, or so she seemed so… a stern woman with sharp eyes, my heavens, it could stop a wolf. She insisted that they meant no harm to the lady." He looks up at Ethen. "But one so hadn't missed the steely glint in her gaze."

"Did anyone tell them anything?" Lukas chimed in.

"No, nobody knew nothing about no Martha, same as you saw you's self. The leader didn't seem the type to leave a stone unturned, and that's exactly what happened." The merchant muses, a worried frown creasing his forehead. "The town is still a bit bitter and are more distrusting of travelers than usuals, see."

Lukas asks eagerly. "When did they leave here?"

"They left a few days ago, headed east. The only way one can go; toward the Still Tides. Probably to the town of Alsterway if one so has to guess. But there are two towns that way, now that one so thinks about it… Alsterway and Outremer, one so thinks it's called…" He becomes lost, fumbling with his aging memory.

"Thank you," Lukas says, his voice heavy. He extends a hand towards the merchant, a gesture of gratitude. The merchant doesn't notice, his gaze grave. Ethen and Lukas stand up and make for their horses. "Thank you again." Lukas waves.

"Be careful out there, lads," he warns them, looking up, standing up, and leaning heavily on his cane. "These ain't ordinary folk you's trailing."

With these words hanging in the air, Ethen and Lukas nod in the affirmative and turn back around, walking away. Lukas spoke into the dust kicked up by their boots. "Your mother's trail, it seems, is laced with more danger than we anticipated." They retreat to the quiet corner of the bustling gateway village where their mounts wait saddled. There, beneath the crimson hue of the setting sun, they find a moment to process the revelations.

"Dad," Ethen begins, the shadows of his uncertainty reflected in his father's eyes. "Who would be hunting mom? And why?"

Lukas rubs his hand over his forehead, revealing his worry and retrieving a speculation from the deep creases. "Could be the church." His voice is barely above a whisper.

"But she's one of the higher members. On a missionary trip on their behalf." Desperation diffuses into his tone. "What sense does it make for them to hunt her?"

"Unless something went wrong with her mission." Lukas ventures another hunch. "Or she's somehow become a threat to the church itself."

"A threat?" Ethen's mind races with the possibilities, each flimsier than the last.

Lukas shrugs, his gaze distant. "Perhaps she learned something she wasn't supposed to. Or she challenged the wrong person. Or maybe it's because she just didn't come back as asked. Who knows? The church's power dynamics can be...complex."

Ethen's blood runs cold. "Do you think she could have had something to do with the bombing?"

Lukas' eyes broaden in puzzlement. "It's...it's a possibility, but... I mean, your mother is many things, but a terrorist? I don't want to believe that. But then again, who couldn't be radicalized by something so extreme..."

They fall silent, the magnitude of their predicament settling as heavily around them as the night itself. Ethen stares at the dusty ground, wrestling with the growing sense of unease. He fears what they might find at the end of this path. He finally speaks, a determined glint in his eyes. "No matter what, we need to find her. Before they do." Lukas nods, his face set in grim agreement. "We will, Ethen."

With their thoughts thudding in their minds, Ethen and Lukas share one last glance before remounting their horses, the decision made. Ahead of them lies the ominous expanse of the desert.

The Still Tides roll out, a seemingly infinite stretch of shifting sand that is both haunting and beautiful. The dunes, majestic in their golden hues and serpentine curves, rise and fall like the waves of a tranquil sea. It's a sight that steals one's breath and makes the dangers hidden beneath its serene facade all the more sinister. But there's no fear in their hearts. There is only the unyielding determination that family creates. This vast ocean of sand holds the key to finding Ethen's mother, Lukas' wife — and they intend to unlock what it fits, no matter the cost.

As Ethen and Lukas prepare to spur their mounts towards the next unseen town, a crackly voice rings out, halting their departure. The weathered old man from the central bazaar steps before them, his posture bending him forwards towards the earth in death's anticipation of his burial, his head fully extended, gaze parallel with his gnarled spine. His eyes, hedged beneath a mess of wild, untamed brows, glint with a peculiar sort of wisdom that only comes from years living in agony.

"I knew it. Yah city folks are gettin' dumber. Insanity, s'what it's!" He cackles, porous teeth gleaming in the lamp lights now illuminating the area. "Yer think ya can just ride off into here?"

Ethen and Lukas exchange glances, confusion scrawled across their faces. Noting their baffled expressions, the old man hobbles towards them.

"See yon?" he points in the direction opposite to their intended progress, and towards a collection of dark, roiling storm clouds circling the distant peak of a solitary mountain, the last rays of sunlight backlighting its broad contours. "That there's the Deluge. A storm, always a-circlin' our holy mountain, Heartstone. That's be lifeblood of Sideria, 'er sole source of water."

Ethen squints at the distant mountain, seeing for the first time the gray curtains of rain beneath the storm. Lighting flashes far-flung, snaking and coiling blindly through the gap of the clouds and the ground. He turns back to the old man, understanding scudding. "You're saying we can't make it to the next town without that storm?"

The old man nods, his wiry beard bobbing along. "Sactly. Towns here, they laid out in a ring, follows the path of the Deluge. You try 'n travel without its cover, and the desert will dry yer up quicker than sand snake's spit. Yer best wait for it to come round, catch it as she passes."

"And the caravan?" Lukas asks, recalling the merchant's shibboleth, his grip tightening on his sand horse's reins.

"Them know the rhythm of the Deluge." The old man sighs, a nostalgic spark in his eyes. "Like an old love's 'eartbeat. Them rides with the storm, from town to town, sending goods, messages..." His smile widens bodingly. "… people. That'd be yer only chance of surviving a trek between towns."

The reality of their situation sinks in. As the old man hobbles away, shaking his creaky head, and leaving them in the dying light of the desert sun, they realize their departure isn't as imminent as they thought. They will have to wait and learn the rhythms of this strange land before they can continue their journey. For now, the vast desert remains a barrier, holding its secrets close, just out of their reach.

Their mounts idle beneath them. Ethen breaks the silence first. "This wasn't part of the plan." His voice rings hollow in the gloaming sky, swallowed up by the immensity of the desert. Lukas turns to him, lines of worry etched into his weathered face. "Plans change, Ethen. This is the desert. We must adapt or perish."

Ethen scowls and unmounts, digging his boots into the sand. "But we're losing time! If that merchant was right, there's a group ahead of us. Mercenaries, by the sound of it."

Lukas nods, sharing Ethen's concern. "We knew this wouldn't be easy. The church...they've got their own agenda. Who knows what they've gotten your mother involved in now?"

"But we're just sitting here!" Ethen explodes, throwing his hands up in frustration. "While some band of cutthroats gets closer to her. We're... we're helpless."

Silence totters between them, the frustration stepping heavy on their shoulders. Lukas speaks up. "We're not helpless, Ethen." He places a hand on the young man's shoulder. "We're waiting. That's something. We're also learning, adapting. When the Deluge comes, we'll be ready. We'll ride with the caravan, and we'll find Martha."

His voice slices through the tension. It's a thin thread of hope in a gulf of uncertainty, but it's enough. For now, they must play by the desert's exceptionless rules. The night descends upon them fully, swathing the duo in its cold embrace. Ahead of them, somewhere in the vast expanse of the desert, are their next footsteps. But for now, they wait. For the Deluge, for the caravan, and for the break of dawn.