I’ve been working on this for a while now; it’s the back story behind one of my MOCs/OCs, Mistral. Just chapter 1 for now, I’ve got a lot more planned but sadly little time to actually write it. I will post more chapters when I finish them.
warning: wall of text ahead
----Living In Thoughts----
I have to remember. Remember what I was, what I could one day be again, luck permitting. I cannot be out here forever. This is not living. This is… Surviving. Struggling. I have mastered surviving in this desert, but that doesn’t mean that I am living. It only gives me some downtime in between the wandering, scavenging, and on occasion, killing. I have been here for so long now that these things are second nature to me. I do not even think about them. That is what worries me: I do not need to think anymore. Days, months, years could go by without a single conscious thought going through my head. I could run on automatic, on instinct, and survive out here until my body gives out completely, but I would die long before that happened. An unused mind fades, dissipates, and eventually vanishes completely, leaving a shell of a person. I know it happens because the evidence of it is everywhere around here, and I do not want it to happen to me. I try to keep my mind busy, to keep thinking about something, some idea, some old legend, anything. As memories fade, though, I increasingly find myself without much to think about.
Such is life as a lone outcast in the desert of Bara Magna.
This desert is a place of destruction. Slow, grinding destruction. The wind wears down the rocks, plants wither and die, as do the minds of those who are here for too long. It’s only a matter of time, and although I have lost track of the years, I’m sure this place has had plenty of time to reduce me to nothing. I’ve managed to keep living by constantly being on the move, traversing this desert from one end to the other. There are several places, oases and the like, where I could conceivably spend the rest of my days in peace, but by traveling continuously I occasionally come across something new, something curious to think about, something to keep me alive. Considering the size of this planet, it will be a while before I run out of places to go. Of course, being a persona non grata in pretty much every populated area does reduce my options somewhat, but there are still many places I could visit. Most of them would be complete wilderness, so going there would be very risky at best, but at some point my need for something new to think about will outweigh the risks involved.
Currently, I’m in the Black Spike Mountains, quite far into Skrall territory. The Skrall are dangerous, of course, but this area is so remote and, for the most part, useless that even they don’t patrol up here. I’ve found a spring, the source of a small tributary to the Skrall river, which is about a two weeks away on foot to the west. According to old tales, the Black Spike Mountains used to be lush and green, but the desert’s steady advance has taken its toll, and now they are, for the most part, barren. This area is dying. There are still some small bushes and one tree here, but the spring will probably run dry within the next few years. The soil is already turning to dust and some dead shrubs mark where there was life not too long ago. For now, though, this area meets all the criteria for a good resting place after a long journey; there’s still water, some food in the form of whatever fruit these bushes produce, and most importantly, there’s shelter. The mountains themselves prevent most sandstorms from reaching up here, but there is a cave nearby where I can take shelter if bad weather, or any other kind of trouble happens to come by. I’ll probably stay here for a while, maybe a few days. It’s been a very long journey here; I came all the way from Creep Canyon. I’ve been walking for four months at least, much of that time through almost featureless desert.
Due to the plethora of burrowing creatures that inhabit this desert, danger can present itself at any time without any warning. When traveling, I have to be alert and ready to defend myself at any moment. I sleep with my thornax launcher strapped to my arm and my daggers in my hands, and virtually never take off my armor. Full battle gear, full-time is the norm here. Only in safe, secluded areas like this one can I afford to let my guard down, drop my weapons, and undo the leather straps that secure my armor. After a long journey, the chain mail and metal frames are practically grafted onto my skin. I made this armor to be light yet resilient, and it has lasted me, with some repairs, for the last few hundred years, or however long I’ve been out here. The full kit still weighs quite a bit, though, and when I take it off, I sometimes feel like I’m tearing off parts of my own body, like I’m some sort of naturally armored desert creature. Without it, I feel vulnerable, naked. However, this spot does present me with a rare opportunity. The water from the spring pools into a small lagoon, and so for the first time in months, I can take a bath. For me, baths have become an almost transcendental experience, a moment of peace and quiet that provides a welcome chance to step down from the knife-edge. They are the only time that I can lose myself, and feel as though I’m home again, a small glimpse of civilization in an otherwise bestial existence. The water is warm at the surface, but cooler down below. I lie down and close my eyes. Honestly, I could die happy now, if you’d just let me enjoy this for a little bit longer…
I wake up sometime later. It’s still day, probably late afternoon. The surface of the lagoon is like a mirror, and for the first time in over a year, I can get a good look at myself. Life as a lone desert nomad takes its toll; I look weathered and much older than I am, or think I am. My face has an emaciated look; the mask has lost much of its original bright red color, my cheeks are bony and the teeth are fully exposed. My hair, originally jet black, now has prominent grey highlights, although it’s usually so caked with sand and dust that the color isn’t all that noticeable. As a Glatorian, at this age I should be in the prime of my life, and while my face looks a little older thanks to its constant exposure to the elements, the rest of my body has had the benefit of armor protection. Were it not for my origins, I bet a few guys would fancy me as a companion. I don’t have much time to for self-admiration, however. I have to stock up on food and water, and thanks to a violent encounter with a hungry Vorox a few weeks ago, my armor could use some repairs as well. These repairs will require a fire, so I need to gather some firewood, which shouldn’t be a problem with all the dead shrubs nearby. Even with a fire, I’ll probably spend the better part of a day repairing the major damage. To get all the pieces back to pristine condition would require at least a week, and some tools that I don’t have access to out here. My thornax launcher could probably do with some maintenance as well… I can’t complain about not having anything to do.
It’s evening now. Normally, I travel more by night; it’s no safer than traveling by day, but at least it is cooler at night. Downright freezing, in fact. On nights like this one, when I’m not on the move, I have to build a fire to keep warm. Fires can be seen from miles around, so I can’t risk building one unless I’m in a safe, secluded location. Either way, I can’t sleep during the night, since I need to either keep moving or make sure the fire doesn’t go out, and therefore I usually sleep during the hottest part of the day: the afternoon. Most desert creatures do the same thing, so it’s probably the safest time to sleep anyways, since the chances of something hungry wandering by are low. A lone, sleeping Glatorian would make a nice meal for just about any predator out here. Speaking of meals, dinner was quite nice. The bushes here produce lots of small, red berries; I don’t remember exactly what they’re called. They’re definitely not poisonous, but I wouldn’t call them tasty either. Or filling, for that matter. Mash them up with some thornax, though, and they make an okay stew.
The heat of the fire is quite nice, but honestly, nights like this one are the boring ones. There’s not much to do except to wait for dawn and occasionally throw another stick into the fire. I need daylight to work on fixing my armor, and besides, even if I did try to hammer it back into shape now, the noise would surely attract unwanted attention from somewhere, and I wouldn’t be able to hear it coming. I should probably clean out my thornax launcher, but if trouble does find me I’ll need it in one piece, and anyways, it’ll be tricky to clean with only the meager light of the fire. I could sharpen my daggers, but that would also create more noise. Anything that I can do has some kind of unacceptable risk attached to it. It’s going to be a long night…
Thoughts? Suggestions? Constructive criticism? All are welcome.
