[center]The Mother of Bones[/center]

She smirked. [i]You would ask us to leave our weapons here as we meet the air queen. Tell me, child, how do you plan to make the Son of Stone safe for the company of your queen?[/i]

Still, the Dust Mother offered no quarrel. She did, however, clutch to her walking stick. She would not go hobbling before a monarch, however foolish this one may be. Token courtesies cost little and earned much. The Dust Mother had few weapons on her - a small dagger for carving and a pouch of harmful mixtures at best. She was protected by more than steel. 

The scarab approached her. From behind the skull helm that covered the Dust Mother's face, she could feel the apprehension and disdain of the others. The scorn of the soft-skinned ones was of little concern to her. [i]Without ten times my numbers, they do not have the courage to act on their anger.[/i] She eyed the small creature, armored in its carapace. She did not like it. Its features were foreign, but it seemed excitable. Seldom were people excited to Kaimerians. This merited no small amount of suspicion - and its honeyed tongue may have tasted sweet to the children around her, but it smelled of snake oil to her. "Well met, Child of Chitin," the Dust Mother spoke, her tone terse. She did not mind pleasantries, but now hardly seemed the time - and she doubted the creature asked if she had companions so it could properly prepare a feast. "I am never alone," she responded, thinking perhaps that would make whatever alien mind worked behind its outer-skull think for a few moments.

The Dust Mother turned to the emissary. "The terms are fair," she spoke, her voice raspy as the desert air, "But I will keep my walking stick."

Then the mouth of the air queen was struck down, and the Dust Mother tasted salt and iron on the desert breeze. Sworsd were drawn and battle was upon them. For a brief moment, the Dust Mother contemplated if this was treachery: but it hardly seemed likely. No, this soft-skinned queen was good to her word. She merely hired fools for watchmen.

The Son of Stone turned and spoke to the raiders with the voice of a mountain, calling for peace. This intrigued the Dust Mother, even as her heart began to thunder in her brittle chest. [i]An idealist or a fool,[/i] she mused. [i]Time will show if diamonds or dust are behind his skull.[/i] The Dust Mother gripped her walking stick tightly with one hand, reaching into a pouch upon her back with the other. From behind the skull she wore, the glare of the desert sun was lessened, and the whipping winds had a difficult time casting sand into her eyes. Though her peripheral vision was limited, what her aged eyes could see was clearer. A fair trade, in her experience. The moving mountain crushed the raiders who came before him, and the Dust Mother stepped back slowly, the clinking and clattering of her bones unheard in the screams and shouts of battle. 

The small girl who bared her stomach attempted to burrow for safety from the storm. The Dust Mother had not sprung to movement or attempted to run - she stood still and ready, her old muscles primed for when she needed them. At her age, she could not spare the fancy flourishes or reckless strikes of the children. There was an economy to the Dust Mother's movements - slow and steady, she kept her breathing regular and as much of her energy as she could spare. There was little chance that she had the strength or energy for a prolonged exchange with even the least of these raiders.

Fortunately, she was likely the least imposing of the group, and the bones she wore offered her a passable-at-a-glance camouflage to their attackers. She stepped backwards as the brawl expanded, taking in the scene. The winds grew stronger, and a desert storm was soon upon them. The small girl had noticed this, wrapping her head with a shawl.

Outside, the beasts screamed for aid. [i]Your time has come,[/i] The Dust Mother thought with irritation, even amidst the clamor. [i]Face it with honor and your bones may yet be worn by a warrior.[/i] She stepped over to one of the other rods supporting the tent, some feet from the small girl attempting to hide herself in the storm. 

Ah.

She turned her head straight up to the desert sun, the milky whites of her eyes stinging in pain for a moment. The Dust Mother watched the currents of the wind, and a crooked grin spread across her face from under the helmet of her skull. The storm came from behind them, roaring toward the attackers. She hobbled another few steps to the iron rod that bound the heavy tent to the earth. 

"Child," she spoke to the bare-bellied girl. [i]This may yet show if she will bear warriors or wretches.[/i] "Cut through the cord." 

She offered no explanation for her plan - an elder Kaimerian mother was not used to affording such luxuries to ones as unbloodied as her. Knees popping, she knelt and drew the carving knife at her belt and began sawing through the thick, heavy rope beside her, feeling the tent grow less anchored with each pull.