Post by Lone Dancer on Oct 8, 2022 20:48:31 GMT
The arid sun beat down against their scales with a suffocating heat, yet the caravan trudged onwards. Even the desert hardy Sandwings found themselves taking an often swig from their water canteens.
Pairs of Sandwings pulled along wagons containing various goods and supplies for the trip and eventual destination. Despite the sweltering heat, dragonets gleefully roamed around the caravan, giggling as they did their games. But as everything was happening outside, inside one of the wagons, a meeting was taking place.
“We’re approaching Sunviper territory, I’m beginning to doubt this shortcut of yours.” The caravan leader, scars crisscrossing their entire body hissed out.
In measured reply, Shaman spoke.
“As long as no one takes to the skies, we will be fine. They don’t patrol this corner, not anymore.”
“Allow me to make myself very clear, any mere hint that Sunvipers are approaching, and I will personally feed your entrails to the vultures.” The caravan leader’s glare showed no threats, only promises.
“Duly noted,” Shaman dryly responded. Stretching, the fabric-draped Sandwing appeared completely unperturbed. With a final glare, the caravan leader grunted and left the wagon, leaving Shaman to their meditation.
The wagon was silent for only a moment before the mutters and whispers started. Keeping their one eye open, Shaman watched the lantern that hung from the Wagon’s ceiling. In a flickering dance, the lantern-flame weaved about, holding shapes for just a blink before flowing to the next.
The more Shaman observed, the louder the whispers became, morphing from the unintelligible, to the translatable. And so Shaman listened. Ideas, images, words, meaning. Fragments of a whole, wanting to be discovered.
And so Shaman obliged them. With a slow exhale, he released a trail of smoke. An offering. Vessel accepted, these fragments surged into it, forming together to become one. The smoke took shape, faces, things.
They could sense his thoughts, delighted to have someone they could interact with. Without vessels, mortals couldn’t see them, hear them, sense them. Yet Shaman offered them freely. A gift that never went unnoticed.
So they helped him, guided him. Showed him answers to his questions. An exchange, a contract, one he paid the original price for long ago. Just the thought sent the singing phantom pains to flare up once more.
Even now, Shaman had to resist touching his eyepatch upon his left eye. The massive burn scars that marred half his face became irritated if he bothered them.
Dancing plumes of sweet-smelling smoke revealed hazy visions of dragons. Sandwings. The Sunvipers. But as before, they were not close. The images were far away. Safe, for now.
But hazy visions made way to black grains of sand, whirling around in raging winds. Moving towards something. More ephemeral shapes, smoky images of wagons and dragons. The caravan.
A massive sandstorm was heading their way.
Message now received, the smoke dispersed, the spirits now leaving. Above, the lantern-light calmed down, resuming its natural flicker. Whispers now made silence. Shaman was alone again.
Barging out, Shaman made a marching beeline for where he exactly knew the caravan leader to be. With an annoyed sigh, the Sandwing paused their banter with one of the caravan guards and turned to address Shaman.
“Well? Have you come to tell me the Sunvipers are coming?” There were hints of a restrained hiss within their voice.
“Sandstorm, large, heading our way.” Shaman flatly stated in turn.
With those words, the caravan leader dropped all pretense and assumed full seriousness. Cursing up their own storm, they began barking orders at the rest of the caravan. They hired Shaman for a reason, and ignoring them wasn’t it.
With a buzz, dragons in the caravan began to bunker up, and the pace was increased. Dragonets were shuffled into supply wagons for their safety, and older dragons began wrapping cloth around their snouts. The Sandwing haulers, finding their second winds, sped up their trudge. No one wanted to be in a sandstorm for long. Especially when they couldn’t just fly away.
Upon the horizon, the whirling sands were visibly approaching. Swiftly. Intense winds blasted up plumes of sand, adding them to the storm.
Everyone was as prepared as they could be but still braced themselves when the sands finally hit. Shaman and the caravan leader were packed in the wagon once more, along with a few others. Shaman was particularly thankful for the shelter, as the twisting sands would play murder upon his scars.
The wagon creaked as it continued upon its path, a now ever-present scratching noise filling the inside, courtesy of the sandstorm. There was a sense of held breaths, but after a few minutes, the storm began to dissipate as it continued on its trek.
After it was confirmed to have passed, dragons began to filter out of wagons, resuming their earlier jobs. Dragonets continued on with their games as if nothing happened to interrupt them.
And so the caravan began on their path once more; hopes of reaching their destination by the ‘morrow ran high.
Pairs of Sandwings pulled along wagons containing various goods and supplies for the trip and eventual destination. Despite the sweltering heat, dragonets gleefully roamed around the caravan, giggling as they did their games. But as everything was happening outside, inside one of the wagons, a meeting was taking place.
“We’re approaching Sunviper territory, I’m beginning to doubt this shortcut of yours.” The caravan leader, scars crisscrossing their entire body hissed out.
In measured reply, Shaman spoke.
“As long as no one takes to the skies, we will be fine. They don’t patrol this corner, not anymore.”
“Allow me to make myself very clear, any mere hint that Sunvipers are approaching, and I will personally feed your entrails to the vultures.” The caravan leader’s glare showed no threats, only promises.
“Duly noted,” Shaman dryly responded. Stretching, the fabric-draped Sandwing appeared completely unperturbed. With a final glare, the caravan leader grunted and left the wagon, leaving Shaman to their meditation.
The wagon was silent for only a moment before the mutters and whispers started. Keeping their one eye open, Shaman watched the lantern that hung from the Wagon’s ceiling. In a flickering dance, the lantern-flame weaved about, holding shapes for just a blink before flowing to the next.
The more Shaman observed, the louder the whispers became, morphing from the unintelligible, to the translatable. And so Shaman listened. Ideas, images, words, meaning. Fragments of a whole, wanting to be discovered.
And so Shaman obliged them. With a slow exhale, he released a trail of smoke. An offering. Vessel accepted, these fragments surged into it, forming together to become one. The smoke took shape, faces, things.
They could sense his thoughts, delighted to have someone they could interact with. Without vessels, mortals couldn’t see them, hear them, sense them. Yet Shaman offered them freely. A gift that never went unnoticed.
So they helped him, guided him. Showed him answers to his questions. An exchange, a contract, one he paid the original price for long ago. Just the thought sent the singing phantom pains to flare up once more.
Even now, Shaman had to resist touching his eyepatch upon his left eye. The massive burn scars that marred half his face became irritated if he bothered them.
Dancing plumes of sweet-smelling smoke revealed hazy visions of dragons. Sandwings. The Sunvipers. But as before, they were not close. The images were far away. Safe, for now.
But hazy visions made way to black grains of sand, whirling around in raging winds. Moving towards something. More ephemeral shapes, smoky images of wagons and dragons. The caravan.
A massive sandstorm was heading their way.
Message now received, the smoke dispersed, the spirits now leaving. Above, the lantern-light calmed down, resuming its natural flicker. Whispers now made silence. Shaman was alone again.
Barging out, Shaman made a marching beeline for where he exactly knew the caravan leader to be. With an annoyed sigh, the Sandwing paused their banter with one of the caravan guards and turned to address Shaman.
“Well? Have you come to tell me the Sunvipers are coming?” There were hints of a restrained hiss within their voice.
“Sandstorm, large, heading our way.” Shaman flatly stated in turn.
With those words, the caravan leader dropped all pretense and assumed full seriousness. Cursing up their own storm, they began barking orders at the rest of the caravan. They hired Shaman for a reason, and ignoring them wasn’t it.
With a buzz, dragons in the caravan began to bunker up, and the pace was increased. Dragonets were shuffled into supply wagons for their safety, and older dragons began wrapping cloth around their snouts. The Sandwing haulers, finding their second winds, sped up their trudge. No one wanted to be in a sandstorm for long. Especially when they couldn’t just fly away.
Upon the horizon, the whirling sands were visibly approaching. Swiftly. Intense winds blasted up plumes of sand, adding them to the storm.
Everyone was as prepared as they could be but still braced themselves when the sands finally hit. Shaman and the caravan leader were packed in the wagon once more, along with a few others. Shaman was particularly thankful for the shelter, as the twisting sands would play murder upon his scars.
The wagon creaked as it continued upon its path, a now ever-present scratching noise filling the inside, courtesy of the sandstorm. There was a sense of held breaths, but after a few minutes, the storm began to dissipate as it continued on its trek.
After it was confirmed to have passed, dragons began to filter out of wagons, resuming their earlier jobs. Dragonets continued on with their games as if nothing happened to interrupt them.
And so the caravan began on their path once more; hopes of reaching their destination by the ‘morrow ran high.