Sand Mother's Wrath

Desert 


 * Rolling dunes spread off into the distance as the hot glow of Demaria's twin suns pound upon the rippled landscape like hammers on a warped anvil. Tracks of small desert animals can be seen on the leeward side of the dune slopes.

It's in the middle of the day after the Demarian fighter crashed in the desert along with the onset of a vicious sandstorm. Sharpeye and Whitestripe survived the night, then set off toward the blunted peaks of the Stubtooth Mountains - and whatever might remain of civilization in New Alhira. The two grit-covered Demarians are weary, worn and pretty well sandblasted in some patches as they slog their way down a dune, still some miles from the foothills.

Coming over the next rise ahead of the desert wanderers, is an odd sight: A Theorian pack, looking rather puzzled at its current surroundings.

Sharpeye squints against the light of the suns, raising an arm above his brow to shield against the glare. "Others," he speaks, voice intent but quiet. One ear swivels towards the newcomers, his tail swinging around in an arc to point out the Theorians for Whitestripe.

Whitestripe cranes his neck slightly as his eyes take in the odd sight before them. "Agreed, hated one. Strange that they would be here. I would not understand why our cousins would be visiting the Mother, unless the tales about Old Alhira's guardians are true." He keeps trudging along, heading mostly in the direction of the pack.

A dusty caramel-colored Theorian determinedly makes her way to the top of the dune, and peers out beyond it, tail lashing from side to side in agitation. One forepaw is up, holding her in check as she pauses to stare. Another moment or two pass before a male felinoid with spotted sand-colored fur crests the hill next to her, slogging through the sand, glancing over at his packmate. A third, gray-furred Theorian lags behind, moving clumsily through the sand, her eyes flicking back and forth agitatedly.

"We'll keep our distance," Sharpeye says, brushing sand from his whiskers as he changes course to walk at an angle to the approaching newcomers. "I don't think they'll be too happy to help us if we get them infected with this curse we carry."

Whitestripe quirks an ear towards the Imperator. "Whyfor ignore them, Imperator? They have obviously come here from the mountains. They could tell us what they have passed on the way here and if those that sent me out here are there still watching." He turns back to the direction of the pack and waves his hands towards them. "Good day, Cousins!"

The first Theorian over the hill cranes her neck around to look behind her, placing her paw back down, and chuffs lightly, earning a dirty look from the spotted male who she looks back at. Tail held low, she turns back to the pair of Demarians walking across the desert. Her ears perk, flicking forward to try and catch whatever noises the two-leggers are making. She takes a step forward, a flicker of recognition in her eyes. The sand-furred Theorian's ears flick resignedly, and he follows in the wake of his caramel packmate, trailed by the gray one, who steps closer to the male of the pack with a shake of her head, tail lashing uneasily.

"Why?" Sharpeye growls in echo of Whitestripe, whiskers twitching in obvious distaste as he shakes his head. "Because too many of us are already fated to these vile mutations. Are you so desperate for company as to bring others along for the horrors we face?" He pauses at the bottom of a dune, looking up toward the Theorian pack in the distance.

Whitestripe waves a hand in slight distraction, brushing away the objection. "Then we will not let them get that close. A few hands of feet should do." He continues onwards, but at a slightly slower pace.

Laying her ears flat, the caramel Theorian takes another step down the face of the dune, paws slipping in the loose sand, her gray-furred packmate stepping up next to her. As the pack directs a wary ~Hello~ to Whitestripe and Sharpeye, the sand-colored male takes a step to position himself between the two, looking unblinkingly at Whitestripe.

Sharpeye stands up a bit more straight as the pack approaches, his tail swishing behind him once for balance. "Hello," he echoes in response to the pack's communication, eyes darting between its various constituents.

Whitestripe comes to a halt a little distance between the Imperator and the pack and adds to the Imperator's greeting. "Greetings, cousins. Please, I ask you to not come much closer. We two are sick, and it may spread a bit beyond mere touch of skin."

~What are you doing here?~ the pack asks, the question tainted with curiosity from the female Theorians, and suspicion from their packmate. ~Were you sick the first time we met you?~ The male's eyes glint, and he looks between the two Demarians slowly. The caramel-furred female's tail touches his, and then wraps around it, as the gray-furred one looks anxiously to the male, eyes turning back to the Demarians as both edge a bit closer to him.

"Our people were attacked," Sharpeye replies slowly, looking from Theorian to Theorian, perhaps unsure of where to let his eyes rest. "The sickness was spread among us; it is new. We are in search of shelter and water."

Whitestripe hunches down on his feet, careful to not actually sit on the hot sand. He nods along with the Imperator's pronouncement. "Sick, not before. Now, yes, but we may get better." He tilts his head to one side, studying the assembled pack. "Ahhh. I recognize you now. The grey one with the pretty blue eyes. The strong sand hunter. Though I do not know your packmate. I greet you...has your hunting been well?"

There is a sense that a discussion is going on just out of the Demarians' sight. The Theorians glance among themselves, come to a consensus, and direct their answer at Whitestripe. ~We'll help you, if you will follow.~ They pause, the male looking over at the caramel one, who mirrors the gesture in perfect synchronization. The gray-furred female's tail lashes back and forth, reaching over to brush against the other female. ~Will you make us sick?~

Sharpeye sniffs the air delicately while waiting for the Theorian response. He shakes his head at their question. "Not unless you get too close too us. Keep this distance between us," he answers. "You have our thanks for your assistance."

Whitestripe nodnods, and tosses a grin over his shoulder towards the Imperator. "See? You are much more blaise about this, compared to the Longclaw. He looked like a kit confronted by the Thing Beneath The Hedge." He looks back to the pack. "Can you get us to the city in the moountains? perhaps farther, to the city in the valley?"

~We can show you the way,~ the pack answers, turning as one and beginning the trek back to the jungle, ~but your paws will have to carry you there.~

The Theorian pack leads Whitestripe and Sharpeye along the dunes, keeping a relatively safe distance between them. About mid-afternoon, the Theorians and Demarians get a glimpse of a single Demarian sitting at the crest of a particularly steep dune. As the wandering party gets closer, Sharpeye and Whitestripe would likely recognize the grizzle-snouted old Demarian who led the rioters to the Imperator's estate just days ago. Still alive, but clearly weak and worn, frazzled from the sun, staring out into the desert.

"Great," Sharpeye drawls wryly in an aside to Whitestripe, tail swishing once sharply, "I don't suppose he's come all this way to make nice?" He chuckles grimly, coming to a halt as he looks up toward the top of the dune.

Whitestripe shrugs as he walks along. "If you mean the traitorous one before us, I hold no grief against him anymore. You are not dead, so I can hardly take his head to your mate as a token of retribution." He pauses for a moment in thought before continuing, "Likewise, I cannot take your head to her either, since you are still living. She would likely misinterpret such a token of honour."

The subtle flow of conversation among the Theorians halts as all three look up at this third Demarian out in the desert. The caramel-furred female sends a cheery greeting, and then pauses midstride to fix Sharpeye and Whitestripe with confused stares, as the gray-furred one shifts from foot to foot, simply watching. ~Don't you want to help one of your own?~ Despite the question, the pack seems ambivalent.

"WE WERE WRONG!" the grizzled old Demarian shouts at no one in particular, arms flailing wildly, and then he tumbles backward over the other side of the dune. He only slides a few feet, though, before he comes to a twitching stop, a clawed paw aiming downslope toward the fringes of the Sand Mother Desert. Down there, in the hammering heat of the midday sun, one can make out the scattered corpses of dozens of Demarians in gritty, clumped stains of crimson. "Wrong," the old Demarian rasps.

"He almost got me killed," Sharpeye explains with a twitch of whiskers at the Theorians' question, starting toward the top of the dune. "But yeah, I'll help him." When the older Demarian starts to fall, Sharpeye scrambles up the side of the dune as fast as he can, only to sink to a halt as the other's pointing leads his eyes toward the dead. "Altheor's teeth!" he hisses, eyes wide.

Whitestripe crests the dune's edge a few moments after the Imperator. "Ah. I see they've been judged already." He pads down the dune face, heading towards the ancient one, remarking over his shoulder towards the pack as he does so, "Perhaps, pretty one. This one attempted to kill this other one." He flicks his tail in Sharpeye's direction. "This one also roused the rest of these into sending me into the Mother as a trial. It is also responsible for the death of a few others of my kind." He pauses to turn around and look curiously at the pack. "Does your kind ever have to kill another of your kind?"

Jerking her head back from the suddenly flailing man, the caramel-furred Theorian's eyes grow very wide. Tracking the felinoid's fall, she hesitates for a moment, and then pads forward to peer over the dune, a low growl in her throat voicing her displeasure and unease. The male steps up next to her, peering down at the scene of death silently, and then between the Demarians with ears flattening back. ~Sometimes,~ they answer Whitestripe as the slower gray cat stops near them. Her ears flick with disquiet. ~Is that what happened here?~

"What is this?" Sharpeye asks in a low voice, swinging around to face the old Demarian, his ears swiveled back. His tail thuds against the dune, sending up a spray of sand, and his eyes narrow dangerously. "What is this?"

"Penance," rasps the grizzle-snouted Demarian as he continues to fade from consciousness. "The one..." He coughs, dribbling what little moisture is left in his mouth onto the sand. "The one we hung...not the...Imperator."

Whitestripe remarks to the pack as he turns back to the sprawl of bodies, "Likely. Our kind are all packs of one in the end." He trudges up to where Sharpeye is standing by the old one, then crouches down. "I think he realizes he and his mob made a mistake." He looks up to Sharpeye. "Who did you get to play your part, Imperator?"

The sand-colored Theorian tenses, the end of his tail flicking back and forth, as his caramel packmate edges away, tail held low and lashing violently. The gray female backs down the face of the dune a bit. ~We should not linger,~ they send uneasily. ~This place reeks of death.~

Sharpeye shakes his head, but whether at the old one, Whitestripe, or himself is not clear. "I don't know who they got instead of me. All I know is that I fear for the future of our people as much now as when we learned of the Kretonian invasion." He leans down to pick up the nearly unconcious Demarian. "Demaria must survive this, by whatever means necessary, as it has survived before. If there are others who plan to take this path, we must stop them."

Whitestripe's ears perk upwards in surprise. "You would carry this one to safety? He has commited himself to the Mother for judgement, after all." One of his ears falls flat as his whiskers twitch in thought. "Well, I suppose we all could be the Mother's agents in this." He rises to his feet, then too leans over to assist the Imerator in his lifting. "Would you like me to carry this one then, reviled one?"

Glancing among themselves again, the Theorians back a bit further away and then turn toward the jungle. ~We're going ahead,~ they send. ~You can catch up with us.~