Ajoran always took a few hours before his mind switched off from soldier mode to civilian. Not that he was ever really truly a civilian, and no one ever saw him that way, not anymore. The mark on his Ojih saw to that. Since he’d taken his office and, thus, the mark, people treated him with the utmost respect. Constantly. He’d never been anything special before, just a mason who lived in the mountains with a talent for swinging a sword. And then, on a whim, he decided to try out to be an Eija. Apparently he had some talent, because he was accepted right away. Strange how life whisked things along from there.

In the military, life happened fast. Ajoran saw new things, tasted new foods, learned so much and...met so many people. There were other things he did that he preferred not to think about—that was the life of a soldier. And he’d accepted that early on. But suddenly he found himself as one of the most powerful people in all of Azurei. A mason. Distantly, he wondered how things would have been different if he never became a Taja, or even an Eija. Then...he wouldn’t have met...her.

With that thought, he finally found his sleep. He was exhausted, and the liquor Kaija gave him did help. When he did wake, the sun was already high and hot, though the palace was well designed to keep the blazing sun at bay and inside it was quite pleasant. Ajoran did not don the blue and white sash of his office that typically draped around his broad shoulders, but instead went with just a russet uri and thin sandals with leather soles. He did, however, wear his sword. There was hardly a time he didn’t have it, and during those times, he usually at least had a knife instead.

Ajoran was glad Sikkina was not far away. The Rhaetian fortress, manned also by a contingent of Eija that sought to both observe and support their kin should the need arise, was up the coast just a little and actually offshore, and not just semi-close to the ocean like the capital city of Jeteijhkai.  In the high heat of midday, the man wisely took it slow, being sure to allow his gray horse to drink plenty along the way. It took a few hours, but at last he saw the stone of Sikkina wavering in the heat-distorted skyline. 


——


Ridahne had been navigating the dust for decades now. For an elf, she was young—only about a hundred summers or so (even she lost count at one point) but she had spent more time out there in the shifting sand dunes and brutal heat and wind than most by the time she was twenty summers. It was a harsh, arid place that consumed all but the prepared, but somehow Ridahne found it…peaceful. It made her feel small in a reverent, awe stricken kind of way. Small and unnoticed. That was a blessing nowadays. She also liked how wild it was, how commanding the winds were over the land as the hadaki, the spirits of wind and sand that haunted the Dust Sea, danced to its mournful tune. The Dust Sea was…oddly, her sanctuary. Hadian’s was the ocean, his first love and forever mistress. But hers, hers was the sand and the heat, and the true solitary nature of the desert abyss. Needless to say, she became very, very good at navigating it, and was often paid to help others do so.

The shifting sands made navigating by landmarks near impossible, unless one knew where to look. There were some rock formations out there, not yet eroded away into dust, and the sun or moon was always a decent compass. But even so, people got lost here often. Either locals or foreigners, people who carelessly ventured out there usually never came back. Ridahne and other scavengers made a profit off of this, either by acting as a guide or by going around and finding the now unowned valuables left by brave souls who never made it through. She made a living that way before she was a soldier, and now that she wasn’t anymore…

Badi, the chestnut bay she rode on, plodded along dutifully at an easy pace, hooves making a muffled thudding as they sunk into the loose red sand. Any tracks were swept away by a gust of wind and overhead, desert hawks circled curiously. A stranger in their midst usually meant a good meal was coming soon. But Ridahne ignored them, moving through the desert with her cloak billowing behind her like this was her home.

On the horizon, wavering in the heat-warped light, sat a dark object not quite red enough to be a rock. Besides, Ridahne knew exactly where she was, and there were no rock formations here that she knew of, unless the wind had uncovered one long since buried.  With a soft kick, she urged her horse to move a little faster towards the object, hoping that it might be something worth her time. Upon closer inspection, she saw a figure, female, dressed in casual Azurian garb, lying still in the sand. Ridahne sighed. Another soul lost to the Sea. Well, she would rifle through what they had and see if there was anything interesting—at the very least, she could probably gain herself an extra change of clothes from the venture—and then move on. Dismounting, Ridahne approached. 

The kill was fresh. There was blood on her, though Ridahne had yet to determine if it was from her or someone else, and the body hadn’t shown any signs of decay, nor had it been eaten by the sparse animals that roamed the wasteland, though there were hawks above her still, waiting for the right moment to swoop down. Ridahne noted that she did not have an Ojih, nor could she see any tattoos, to her knowledge. That alone tipped her off that this woman was not Azurian. Elvish, at least in part, so probably Rhaetian. Another sad sigh.  Rhaetia was kin, and Azurei was very forward about warning them about the dangers of the Dust Sea. The sword was another clue, as it, too, was not Azurian. But it would sell just the same, she decided, and reached out to remove the sword and sheath from the corpse. Her hands touched the leather, fumbled with the buckle and—

Movement. The female’s chest rose and fell, and just when Ridahne thought she was imagining it, she saw it again. And again. Rhythmically, but slowly. “Ai!!” She exclaimed, realizing that this ‘corpse’ was not a corpse at all. She was alive. All intentions of gathering food or resources out there were driven from her mind, which now focused solely on giving the stranger some aid. She would be dehydrated, possibly starved, and would have suffered heat exhaustion, not to mention she seemed injured. She had no horse, no cloak to shield her from the sun, and nothing to suggest she was anything but alone. What was she doing out here?

Ridahne retrieved a waterskin from her bags and tilted it slowly into the wanderer’s mouth as she held her head upright in her lap. She wouldn’t be able to give her much that way, but something was better than nothing. Next, she poured a little water onto the ground and began scooping the wet sand and dust and smearing it over the exposed skin on the girl. Mud, after all, made an excellent shield from the sun, plus the water would cool her down. She assessed the injury, finding it wasn’t immediately life threatening and could wait to be fully dressed until she got her back into town, though for now, she took a strip of cloth from her bag to cover it.  

Ridahne was a tall, thin woman, almost wispy looking, but she was in no way frail. Most Azurei were like that, slim, lean, but quite strong, as their harsh lifestyle meant that everyone worked hard to get by. It wasn’t much of a struggle to scoop up the woman and put her on her horse, then leapt up behind her, pivoting back the other direction and spurring Badi hard towards home.



Hadian had been cooking, searing strips of salted meat in a hot metal pan over their outdoor fire pit, when he heard the distant pounding of fast hooves. That was unusual enough, as people did not tend to push horses in those parts unless they needed to. He glanced out, realizing that he knew the color of the horse and the blanket on its back. Ridahne. It was far too early for her to be back just yet, just mid afternoon. Hadian abandoned the meat to meet her, though his confused expression melted when he saw that she was not alone.

“Ridahne…?”
“Boil water. Now. Get me a needle and thread, and some salve.”
Hadian was already moving. “She’s alive?” 
“Barely, but I’ve seen people come back from worse. Open the door.” Her voice was commanding and urgent, but collected. The siblings got the stranger inside, and Ridahne lowered her onto her own bed, proceeding to drape wet cloth around her neck, chest, and forehead to cool her down while Hadian prepared to treat the wound, setting a pot of water outside to boil and gathering supplies. 

The siblings grew up in Atakhara-Ali, the port city of the district, and the fishing capital of Azurei. It was not known for being a beautiful city, or a clean one, or even a rich one. In fact, it was the opposite of all of those things. Rustic, dusty, lacking any actual roads besides the areas where the dust packed down from use. Dock workers enjoyed seedy taverns, brothels, started brawls, haggled prices, and lived in relative squalor. Other cities in the Atakhara provence had villages with actual homes made of clay or mud brick, or sometimes wood or stone, depending on the locale. But Atakhara-Ali was poor. Very poor. Its residents were blue collar workers, laborers, or those, like Ridahne, who were low on the social status for one reason or another. Thus, it was a place where trouble frequented. Hadian and Ridahne had seen their fair share of fighting, brawling, battles, and tragedy. Hadian, especially, was experienced in setting bones and responding to other crises because of his sister, who frequently got herself into trouble.

The two were adept at treating the injured, and in no time they did all they could for the stranger. Even Mitaja, the 100 lb cat that helped them hunt and kept them company, helped in what way she could; the reddish-beige cat hopped up onto the bed beside the woman and licked the mud from her face, then languidly stretched out beside her and fell asleep with her back pressed up against the woman’s side. Ridahne and Hadian simply waited, watching for any changing signs in the stranger’s condition.