Blood and Sand

[Obsidianserpent]

ACT I



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It was approaching midnight on the eve of the summer solstice. That was what the spell required. Candlelight peered through the crevices of the reed shack where the Skin Walker Janhul, long, grey skinned, and covered in ceremonial paint, sat cross-legged upon a mat of palms and linen. The chirp of crickets and scavenging vermin echoed through the surrounding jungle, as raindrops pitter-pattered on the thatched rooftop above. Janhul had made the necessary preparations. A bone goblet, a glass vial of spring water, a bowl of Hearthwood sap, and a lock of thick, sable colored hair rested upon the stone tablet before him. He would need to be careful when concocting his magical brew; sap from a Hearthwood tree was poisonous to all except those rare souls who shared Janhul's uncanny connection to the Ghost Land. Skin Walkers were thought to be gods of the old religion inhabiting mortal flesh. They could wear the skins of animals as their own, dominating their minds and experiencing the world through their eyes: a gift which earned them their title, and struck fear into the hearts of slaves and highborn alike. But even a Skin Walker could overdose on the intoxicating substance, remaining bound to the Ghost Land until their mortal vessel perished.


Janhul closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the sweet, humid air. He unscrewed the cork atop the glass vial, emptied its liquid contents into the goblet, and added a single drop of the viscous Hearthwood sap. The concoction began to boil and hiss for several moments before taking on a dark indigo hue. A sour, pungent odor rose from the goblet, causing tears to well from his eyes. At last, he grasped the thick lock of hair with his calloused fingertips, and dropped it into the mixture.


The lock belonged to Amri, a skilled warrior he'd once encountered in the city of Daamir, 'The Desert Jewel'. She was a champion of the fighting pits, and slave to a highborn merchant lord. After a bloody match against 'The Jackal', a renowned spearman from the north, Amri sustained formidable injuries to her left arm and leg. Rot had set into her wounds, which were beginning to fester and seethe. Death seemed immanent. It was a fortunate and unlikely twist of fate that Janhul happened to be in the Desert Jewel that wet season. He was purchasing medical herbs within the market district when he encountered Amri, who was clinging to life in the corner of a filthy barracks infirmary. Janhul had become a proficient healer, having studied for years the various herbs and flora which flourished in the Simbi Jungle. Combining Hew Flower with Sun Bean oil, Janhul created an elixir which rooted out the infection in Amri's limbs, leading to a full and rapid recovery. He refused the fifty silver pieces he'd been offered by Amri's master. He merely collected a lock of Amri's hair and whispered softly into her ear, "The hour may come where I shall call upon your aid skilled warrior. Heed my call..."


The hour had finally arrived. The blight which spoiled the crop had resisted all of Janhul's efforts to expel it. The famine which followed came to be known as The Harrowing, and resulted in the decimation of over half Sabah's population. This blight had the stench of other-worldly intervention about it; Janhul could taste it in the air. He resented any power that would treat mortal men and women as tools in some cosmic game, and had grown equally distasteful of the priests and theurges who worshiped them. For nearly three and half decades Janhul had struggled to elude the purview of the dominant religious sects. He'd been deemed 'Witch' and 'Devil' by the priests of Nitocris and Haajid, who feared the lingering influence of the old religion. When deities quibble, mortals die. Janhul would not surrender this world to the powers of the void without a fight.


Several years prior, Janhul had purchased a peculiar piece of papyrus from an eccentric, dough faced merchant traveling through the Forked Tongue channels. It described an artifact of divination known as the 'Oracle's Eye'; a marble sized, ten sided emerald which rested deep within the inner sanctum of an ancient Daksha temple. It would require extensive preparations to activate the gem's abilities, but perhaps with such a powerful tool at his disposal, Janhul could at last reveal the origin of the worst famine Sabah had endured in centuries. But artifacts of power tended to attract all manner of unsavory characters, mortal and otherwise. Janhul could only speculate what malevolent forces may have taken up residence within those dilapidated ruins. Though he was no stranger to the battlefield, he would require the assistance of a seasoned warrior if he was to wrest the Eye from its current home.


Yaasmeena the Weaver, a contact from Daamir and personal friend of Janhul had informed him of Amri's escape from slavery, and her purported involvement with an underground abolitionist guild known as the 'Crimson Children'. Janhul knew the time to collect on his bargain was at hand, assuming Amri still drew breath. The Highborn had reportedly sealed themselves within the palace, sustaining themselves through some inexplicable means. What few wheat and barley rations remained within the docks and slums districts were controlled by two warring guilds, the Crimson Children and a semi-organized gang of escaped prisoners and sell swords known as the 'Dread Brotherhood.' The streets had become riddled with violence and bloodshed, as circumstances became increasingly dire. Janhul worried that if he didn't discover the source of the famine soon, war and starvation would sweep across Sabah like wildfire.


Janhul stretched forth his black, bony hand over the potent brew. His nails were long and sharp, resembling the claws of a feral cat. "Danu, Veethras, Mithraka...". The elixir lit up in flames as Janhul muttered the ancient spell. He cupped the base of the goblet with both hands and raised it to his lips. As the bitter serum slithered down his throat, his eyes turned pale white, as though he were inhabiting the skin of a beast. His vision began to cloud, images and sensations taking shape as his spirit passed through Ghost Land, and entered into the dreams of the sleeping gladiator.


He beheld a vast yellow plain, rays of light penetrating through cinereal storm clouds which brewed on the horizon. Janhul and Amri stood facing one another, both clad in pitch black garments which billowed to and fro in the wind. "The hour is late champion. The soil cries out in agony. The bellies of men remain empty and the stench of death is heavy on the air. Something sinister grips the heartlands, threatening to crumble the kingdoms of man beyond repair. I now call upon your aid Amri...A ship awaits us. Seek out the Red Knave within the Docks District on the eve of the next full moon. Do not delay. The fate of this land rests on the edge of a knife...." Janhul's words echoed on the wind as he spoke. The land and vegetation surrounding them proceeded to crumble and combust ; large swathes of earth and soil spiraling toward a vortex of stone and fire which swirled violently overhead. All was suddenly consumed by a hot, white light which tore him from Amri's mind.


Lightning spread across the sky as Janhul awoke, his eyes regaining their usual teal hue. He gasped; consuming the Hearthwood had drained him, body and mind. Struggling to regain his breath, he extinguished the candles which lit up his humble abode before collapsing upon the quilt of animal skins in the corner of the hut. Sleep overtook Janhul as he rested his weary eyes. He would set out for Daamir when he awoke. He hoped Amri would heed his summons...


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[rachelsmatchstick]

Amri's breath was shallow and scarce as she pressed herself as flat against the grainy wall of the building behind her, the air around her thick and humid like sweat. It had a distinct smell that only meant rain, and though clouds couldn't been seen in the dark she knew they were there because there wasn't a star in sight. The rain had yet to fall but even when it did she wouldn't let it get in her way. She didn't mind working in the rain. She would have worked in a hurricane.


Veiled from the nose down, she still wore the same garb she had escaped in. Sirwal pants with a small shirt didn't provide much protection in a fight but allotted for quick, lithe movements. Her feet were bare, the soles nearly as rough as the stone and sand she tread on. She kept her long, sable hair pulled away from her equally black eyes, the rest of her features impossible to distinguish under the veil.


She stared at the rusted gate below with a look of menace etched in her dark features. The pointed iron bars didn't look like much, but built behind them were walls unseen to the eye. It was some sort of spell cast with a severe, dark magic that plagued anyone brave - or stupid - enough to touch it. Inside was the city of Daamir, a place she had ironically worked so hard to escape from for it to be the one place she wanted to be. She left her brother, Mikar, there. He was only a child of seven.


I'll come back for you.


She had spoken those words so long ago that she was certain Mikar had forgotten them. If he didn't chances were he hated her for taking so long or worse, he thought she had forgotten she'd ever said them. Daily she wondered what was happening in the city and how he was faring, but her crusade to find him wasn't going so well. She had a lead this time, the first one in weeks, and she waited patiently for the exact moment.


It wasn't too long of a wait. A cloaked figure approached the gates, looking around fervently before darting between the rusted iron and the building she was perched upon. She positioned herself until she was looking over him as he raised his hands to cast deep scarlet lights into the invisible barrier, which suddenly pulsed the same shade. It looked like he was feeding it, but she didn't understand magic enough to say what exactly he was doing.


It was the moment she had been waiting for. She drew her knife and proceeded to scale down the building with alacrity, darting in a winding pattern through the darkest shadows until she was on him. He was concentrating too hard and didn't see her until it was too late. She lept forward, shouldering him to the ground as he yelped in surprise. Before he could do anything else she grabbed one of his feet and twisted until she heard the satisfying crack of bone. She jumped on top of him, pressing him down with her full weight, plunging the blade of her knife into the fleshy part of his upper arm.


"How do I dispel the barrier? Tell me," she said as she twisted the knife.


His strangled scream was low and agonized, his eyes clenched shut as his form went rigid. She gave him a moment to catch his breath before she smacked the side of his head. When he opened his eyes they widened as he looked over her face, illuminated in the glowing red hue in front of them. He clearly saw the same swirling tattoo that trailed the side of her face that matched the ones that he knew adorned each of her wrists. Slaves were marked exactly the same so that they would always be recognized for what they were by strangers as well as themselves.


He spit at her but she turned her face with barely enough time to avoid it. "I don't speak to slaves."


Her laugh was low and void of any humor. "In that case you'll never speak to anyone else, either." Without another word she shoved her hand in his mouth, gripping his slimy tongue and yanking it out far enough for her to sever it with her knife. She stood and kicked him for good measure, his screaming drenched by blood.


She left him to it, the volume of his cries slowly receding the further away she got. There was nothing she could do now but head back to her tent. It was getting late, and she wanted to get as much sleep as possible before trying again the next day. Her heart was heavy with failure, but that was becoming increasingly normal. After trying for months to find a way back into the city she was still no closer than when she started. She was certain her sleep would be broken, as it had always been since she escaped. She was always on edge and constantly woke throughout the night.


She set herself up in a safe place close to the base of the Crimson Children, who had been more than helpful in her mission to free slaves until the city was sealed off. All progress had halted since then, and that's when they became more interested in their war with the Dread Brotherhood. She participated enough, but she spent most of her time pursuing her own goal.


She peeled back the burnt orange flap of her tent, laying down with an ungraceful thud and stared into the dark. She expected to lay there a while, but for some reason she had already fallen asleep by the time the first few drops of rain hit the roof of her tent.


She fell into a much deeper sleep than she had been in for months, her form heavy and suspended in abeyance. There was nothing but dark until she was suddenly standing somewhere far away, shrouded in black in the middle of golden grass that reached far past her sight. Someone else was there in front of her, someone familiar but also someone strange. He saved her once but she never learned his name, only that he would need her one day, and there he was in her dream, his summons undeniable.


She awoke with a start, her heart hammering in her chest as a cold sweat ran down her neck. Fields of yellow, darkened clouds, broken earth, and fire swam in her vision with that voice still burning in her ears. If the speaker hadn't appeared to her in that dream she would have known the voice anyway. She only heard it once before but even then it had left it's mark carved into her memory, as if her subconscious refused to allow her to forget the sound.


She ran a hand across her forehead, wiping away the salty sweat and rubbing her eyes before standing. Her choice was clear. Staying would most likely mean more and more failed attempts, but going to the docks would be a new opportunity and she'd be a fool not to investigate. Without another thought she prepared for travel and left, desperate enough to try anything.

 

[Obsidianserpent]

Janhul slept more soundly than he had in months. While the Hearthwood ceremony had been draining, it was also cleansing: cathartic even. As he awoke, his first thought was how incredibly parched he was. He rushed for the ladle of water which rested in a wooden bucket to his left side, and swiftly brought it to his lips. He gasped for air after taking a prolonged drink, and rested his head in his hands for several moments. He would need to set out soon. He'd packed some dried fruit and nuts, and several gourds of fresh spring water several days prior; he would need it for the voyage ahead. The Sanguine Desert was unforgiving and deceptive. The dune landscape shifted constantly, and mirages upon the rocky wastes had led many lost adventurers to their deaths. It was nearly a days journey by camelback. He would need to make haste if he was to arrive in Daamir by nightfall.

Janhul, Skin Walker
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He rubbed his hands across his bald scalp and beheld his own reflection in the bucket of water. He'd grown wise and powerful, but his spirit was weary. He couldn't help but bear witness to the cries of the dead from the Ghost Land. The sorrow of thousands who'd perished from starvation and crime weighed heavily upon his mind.


He loaded his supplies onto to his trustworthy camel Taba, and fastened a small, salmon colored basket to the right side of his linen belt. Hissing noises came from within as he tightened the knot. Therein rested Yamal, the Ebony Cobra he'd raised since birth. The snake was timid and reserved by nature, but possessed the fastest acting venom of any living creature known to man. A single drop of the vicious neurotoxin could paralyze a man's arms and legs in seconds. Within a minute’s time, the venom would slow the heart to a complete and final standstill. While possessing Yamal's skin, Janhul became a stealthy and deadly, albeit vulnerable assassin. Janhul took great care not to sustain injuries when skin walking; the borrowing of another's body came with great responsibility. Some Skin Walkers were ruthless and cruel, dominating the minds of their pets as though they were mere puppets. But Janhul was gentle and kind toward his serpentine companion.

The Harvester



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As he made his final preparations to set out across the Sanguine Dunes, he grasped the twisted handle of his kris from a nearby table, and fastened it to his right hip. He had named the blade the Harvester. Nearly a decade ago Janhul had summoned it from the Ghost Land, giving it corporeal substance. The blade was both mystical and physical in nature; its edge would never dull and could rend flesh and specter alike. The blade had a metallic, blue green tint, and though it was only the length of his forearm, Janhul had ended many lives with it. He proceeded to attach two vials alongside Yamal’s basket: one purple, containing the widowsbane and the other sea foam green, containing a peculiar mixture of incense and jade. He placed a necklace bearing three skulls upon his neck, each belonging to a former cleric of Nicrotis who had made attempt on Janhul's life. Finally, he draped himself in a long, burgundy cloak before mounting Taba and setting out for the sands.


After making his way through the Simbi Jungle, his trek through the Sanguine was relatively quick and comfortable, with storm clouds shielding him from the scorching sun for most of his journey. Dusk was approaching as the Desert Jewel of Daamir revealed itself on the horizon. The village of Agha had been abandoned. Vultures and crows picked at the withered human carrion along the dirt road. The smell of death was heavy upon the air. Janhul plucked the kernels from a nearby wheat stalk and rolled them between his fingers. The grains were black and misshapen; it could offer no nutrition to the belly.


As Janhul approached the massive stone gates of Daamir, a stern voice called out to him from a watchtower above. “Who goes there?!” A woman clad in red garments stood atop a large, elephant shaped watchtower before him. “My name is Janhul. I seek an audience with Yaasmeena...she’s expecting me.” The woman paused for a moment before disappearing into the tower. Several moments later, the gates creaked open. The city was barely recognizable. What was immediately noticeable was the stench; Janhul was ungrateful to have become so familiar with the odor of rotting human flesh. “Yaasmeena awaits you at the docks. Kameel will escort you. Move swiftly through the city and keep a close eye on your possessions...the people of this city are nearly starving. They have little to lose.”


Janhul proceeded to follow Kameel toward the docks. He was wearing the same red garment; the signature robes of the Crimson Children. As they made their way through the heart of the district, Janhul noticed a long line of villagers leading to a large cauldron, where a small man, surrounded by two armed guardsmen, poured a single scoop of porridge into a villager’s bowl. Their faces were pale and their bodies withered. This meger grool wouldn’t sustain them for long.


As they reached the docks, Kameel directed Janhul toward the Black Knave where Yaasmeena awaited him. It was a small but sturdy ship, capable of carrying a party of four or five. “Greetings Skin Walker. Behold the Black Knave, as you requested. This is Saabir, captain of this ship, and his two shipmates Abdul and Hasan. He’s navigated the Black Sea on countless occasions.” Janhul nodded politely removing his hood. He could tell immediately by the expression upon the crew’s faces that they were weary of his presence. Saabir was tall and brawny with a long beard and a blood red turban wrapped around his head. His shipmates were plainly dressed, but were covered head to toe in various tattoos, the meaning of which Janhul was unable to make out. “I thank you Yaasemeena. And I thank you as well Saabir, Abdul and Hasan. I trust we shall arrive at the Emerald Isles safely”, Janhul responded. The captain gave the Skin Walker a suspicious glare before hoisting himself onto the ship. “We’d best set out soon. It’s a day’s journey across the Black Sea, and there’s a storm brewing. I can feel it in my bones…”, Saabir warned. Yaasmeena grasped Janhul by the arm and led him several paces away from Saabir and the crew. “The situation in this city grows worse day by day. The highborne remain sealed within their palace keep, and the Crimson Children’s ability to feed this city is rapidly waning. To add insult to injury, the Dread Brotherhood has gained momentum this last few weeks. Despite our best attempts to exterminate them, for each member we kill a new one rises. The violence in the streets is becoming difficult to control. I pray that you can put an end to this famine soon Skin Walker...”, Yaasmeena stated in a sullen tone. “Hope is not lost. The Oracle's Eye could prove a tremendous boon to us...stay strong my friend. I shall return shortly”, Janhul responded in an attempt to comfort her. Yaasmeena nodded as she grasped Taba’s reins and led the camel to the stables. As Janpul pulled himself onto the bow of the ship, he noticed a figure approaching in the distance. Relief surged over Janhul; Amri had arrived....

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