Altered Tundra
mickilennial
Antigone kneeled before her father, her face downturned and eyes ever-restless as always. Unable to stop herself, her eyes counted every little stone, every discernable fleck of rock and sand within her field of vision. Every detail was observed, noted, and translated. Who had walked there and where they had come from and what that might mean for the assassin-heiress.
“Find out why Black Spire suddenly needs so much more… sustenance… than usual.” Nessioi commanded with his voice like gravel grating on stone. He took a leisurely drag from the hookah beside him, where he lounged perpetually on a cushioned dias at the center of his audience chamber. “The truth of it, my dear Antigone, however you can obtain it. If Canak means to make a move on the mortal civilizations, I’d like to buy our way out of that conflict before it starts.” The Old Goat continued through a cloudy exhalation of sweet-smelling smoke.
Antigone was grateful to be bent below the lingering layer of mind-warping haze, though less grateful for being sent to the wamphyri stronghold. The mere thought of the heinous symbiotes and their ancient lord sent a chill through her copper skin, but business was business, and the wamphyri were very profitable clients.
Despite her disquiet, she replied: “Of course.” Her contralto voice had a surprisingly rich tone despite her slight frame. She rose and turned in one quick, fluid motion. Her sand-toned skirts sliced soundlessly through the air, and her cloven feet left not a whisper upon the dark sandstone floor. Antigone would not be heard, unless she wanted to.
Guards straightened as she passed, each giving a respectful nod, though she was nearly two feet shorter than they, without even accounting for the lengthy horns curving backward ever so slightly over their dark-haired heads, making the spears in their hands almost seem thricely redundant.
She made her way through her father’s sprawling palace within the red rock of Thermopoli, through ornately-carved corridors, past countless intricate tapestries, crossing thick carpets rich in both colors and designs, stopping only to fill her supply pack along the way. From her own apartments, she retrieved a gold and ruby amulet adorned with the crest of the wamphyri lord, a symbol decrying her certain level of diplomatic immunity on their land. She would hang it around her neck later, but first, into her pack it went, so that no one within the city might discern her destination. Along with the amulet, she collected the other basic trappings for a brief journey into the Dune Seas: some light rations, a waterskin, and, most notably, a heavy layered-canvas tent that would be her only protection if she found herself caught in a sudden sandstorm.
Finally, she stepped out into the shadowed courtyard at the center of the city. There, a ceaselessly-tended olive tree, once merely a tiny seedling that had first sprouted on another world, the World That Was Lost, still grew with its gnarled roots dug into sandy soil that was continually nourished by its caretakers. Generations of young satyrs had honed their natural agility as they harvested the purple-gray olives amongst its sprawling branches, which reached upward past several layers of the city.
Through the tree’s canopy, Antigone could see the suns’ set streaking its first colors across the desert sky far above. Soon, the cool hours of the night would settle into the sands of the Western Dune Seas that stretched between Thermopoli and the dreaded Black Spire.
Antigone tightened the thick leather strap across her chest, securing her pack, before leaping up onto the ledge of the next floor. With the ease of much practice, her hooves found purchase on the tiny lip of railing while she calculated her next leap. A housekeeper gasped loudly at Antigone’s sudden appearance, nearly dropping the neatly folded linens she carried. Without apology, the assassin-heiress was already bounding towards the next ledge. She wouldn’t waste a minute of the night’s mercy by taking the long way through the ever-crowded subterranean city. She could suffer the heat of the day if needed, sure, but she wished to save her strength, lest she find herself caught off-guard at the Spire, and risk becoming just another source of “sustenance” for the tower’s residents.
Antigone vaulted over the final railing surrounding the city’s uppermost layer and passed through the open doors of Thermopoli, which were closed only in times of imminent threat. The passage was crowded with carts and the stout beasts that pulled them as the many petty merchants, artisans, and traders made their nightly commute to the market on the surface of the steppe. Lines of shops, stalls, and stands wound around the rim of the city in a bustling web of thriving commerce.
The small satyr melded with the diverse patrons making their various ways through the narrow aisles between the stalls that were selling everything from new pottery to street food. Antigone plucked a snack of candied fruits speared on a skewer from one of the food-stalls, but the shopkeeper denied her attempt to pay with a fearful gesture. “No charge. No, no charge, Lady Antigone. No charge.” The sweaty man repeated himself until she put her heavy purse back into her pack. He dabbed at his forehead with a dingy cloth once she had disappeared back into the crowd. Whatever debt he must owe Nessioi wasn’t her business that night.
The vast majority of the market’s patrons passed her by without notice. Towering elves stooped to peruse the multitudinous wares, some in elegant urban dresses and others in the utilitarian outfittings of desert nomads, while dwarvish crafters shouldered their way through the throngs in an eager search for their kin, with whom they would trade their differing minerals, metals, and other materials from the mine-cities that were bored into mountains near and far.
At the edge of the market, Antigone pressed her way towards a stable where beasts of burden of every description were tethered. Reptilian bogas shook their feathery manes at each other, scaled heads bobbing in communication, bodies moving to adjust the heavy leather saddles on their backs. The piercing screeches of two saber-toothed hares mingled with the sudden shouts of their keepers as an altercation ensued between the animals.
Upon sighting Antigone, a stablehand hurried away after a deep bow towards the assassin-heiress and returned swiftly with a leadrope in hand. Emerging from the stable behind the worker, came a beast that most simply called a Six-Stride, though some older elves still used the name their ancient ancestors had given it: Sleipnah’o’duhai, a multisyllabic mouthful which directly translated to some poetic phrase about a legendary beast that ‘eats the desert.’ Antigone simply called the thing Useful.
Feral herds of the six-legged beasts still roamed all of the Dune Seas indiscriminately. Their pale coats were just thick enough to protect their skin, while reflecting the searing suns’ light. At night, the creatures were practically fluorescent under the magenta moonligh. Still, they were much too skittish and too swift for the desert’s predators to catch with any regularity, and so their numbers were limited almost entirely by the availability of what little water they needed to survive.
Useful, however, was a domesticated variety bred specifically for traveling discreetly at night by Antigone’s own assassin ancestors. Its darker coat wasn’t reflective like that of its wild kin, and the decreased thermoregulation was mitigated by life in a stable. Not great for prolonged ventures into the desert, but Useful could assuredly carry Antigone to the Black Spire by sunrise.
She nodded thanks to the stablehand, who backed away with another bow. After she’d attached her pack to Useful’s saddle, she gave a quiet whistle like the distant whoop-call of a nigthbird and the creature kneeled with a wheezy little grunt. Even kneeling, the animal’s back was nearly too high for Antigone to see over. It turned to sniff her and laid its heavy head on her shoulder. Antigone huffed impatiently, but begrudgingly gave Useful a few stiff pats on its muscular neck before hopping up into the smaller fore-compartment of the large saddle.
Another whistle-whoop and Useful stood again. Antigone settled into her seat and tapped the heels of her hooves against the beast’s shoulders. Useful eagerly alighted into a brisk trot, picking its own path through the thinning crowd at the edge of the market. Once they reached the open sand, Antigone wheeled the beast towards the west after a quick glance at the stars above. Another tap from her heels, and Useful accelerated into a smooth gallop.
Trusting Useful to maintain their course through whatever sense the Six-Strides possessed to guide them across the desert to seasonal oases which sustained them, Antigone soon climbed back into the larger of the saddle’s compartments. She laid back on the cushion there and the sounds of Useful’s three pairs of flat feet slapping rhythmically against the sand lulled Antigone to sleep. She knew that the beast would spot any approaching threat long before she could, waking her with-
That wheezing grunt snapped Antigone out of slumber. Something was amiss, making Useful uneasy. The satyr assassin sat up and scanned the horizon for movement. Finding nothing, she glanced again at the sky. The moons had already passed each other, meaning her journey was just over halfway complete. Halfway between points of civilization was not a great place to be isolated and ambushed. Still, there were no ominous shadows of a building sandstorm across the sky either, so what had spooked Useful?
Antigone looked around again and finally spotted an odd glow just beyond the edge of the cliff-face that marked the border of the Gray-Skins’ land, where anyone found after dark without appropriate business with the Shyr's lord was fair game for his… progeny. Antigone slowed Useful to a quiet walk as they approached the light, which flickered like a campfire though the glow it cast was quite blue, even under the violet night sky.
As Useful approached the edge, Antigone could see the shadow of a gully in the sand, leading to a fresh cut in the scarlet sandstone where something quite large had recently smashed through the cliff-face. Chunks of the bright stone looked especially red against the sand under the light of the Morrigans’ Moon as it sank towards the Southern horizon.
Antigone bid her mount to kneel again and left Useful’s noisy bulk out of sight as she approached the cliff-face. She dropped to the sand and peaked over the edge to spot the source of the blue light. It was, in fact, surprisingly enough, a small fire perhaps ten meters below her.
She squinted, struggling to make out the shape of the figure near the fire, only to fail at suppressing a reflexive jerk backwards once she began to discern the details.
What in the fuck…
Antigone had seen many, many strange things in her travels, but nothing like what she had just seen reaching out to tend the fire.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t a one of the Runner’s Rangers maintaining the truce-boundary from the ravenous young shyr, and it wasn’t one of Canak’s fledglings, camped near the border in hopes of catching some lost traveler unaware, and that meant it wasn’t her problem. She had her orders.
She soundlessly pushed herself back from the ledge and returned to Useful, leading the creature a little ways down the cliff’s edge until she was sure nothing could see that far in the desert-dark, if it hadn’t already seen her peak over the ledge. The cliff had just enough slope to it that anything nimble enough could pick its path down with surmountable difficulty.
Antigone continued to lead while behind her, Useful had slightly more trouble finding its footing and sent a few loose bits of sandstone tumbling down the incline. The sound of the rocks was muffled by the sand, but something on the desert floor began to wail and flash a bright red light.
Antigone immediately looked back towards the fire, and saw it blocked by the shadow of a standing figure, while she and Useful froze in shock from the deafening sound and blinding light, so clearly illuminated by the strobe of an automated sentinel staked into nearby sand.
