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"The Cursed Oasis"
May. 10th, 2022 06:09 pm"The Cursed Oasis"
12/3-12/4/1212 DR
I.
His horse had died four days earlier. Piece by piece, Romal had been forced to discard the gear he had tried to carry across the desert. Under the vicious Khebir sun, he had trudged toward the horizon without hope, only stubborn determination. Even his unnatural strength and endurance were reaching their limits.
Created by the Darthan Kjes using forbidden arts, Romal the Mongrel seemed to be a normal Human man barely twenty years old, with shaggy black hair and dark blue eyes under heavy brows. He was over six feet in height and powerfully built but even that was still deceptive. In his body was the full strength of a Fighting Troll and the speed of a Snake man, as well as traits from the other Seven Races. But he had limits like all flesh and blood, and he was reaching them.
Romal had tried to sleep during the worst of the daytime heat, digging a pit in the sand and covering himself with his cloak. At night, the Khebir desert cooled slightly but not enough. Today he had felt weakened so much that he had spurred himself in a half-unconscious effort to reach some sort of refuge.
He still wore his boots, black pants and blue tunic, with the Signarm-made sword hanging from its baldric. Sheathed at his belt was the wide-bladed knife that was meant to be more tool than weapon. The yellow cloak had been pulled up over his head to provide what shade it could. His lips were so swollen and cracked that he could not close his mouth. The sweat that had been trickling in his eyes had stopped, which was a bad sign indeed.
The sun was low behind him. His shadow stretched out black and distorted over the unmeasured miles of hot sand in front. The Mongrel was no longer fully aware of why he still fought to live. It was deep in his nature to never yield. Ahead of him was another in the endless series of dunes and he forced his aching body to keep carrying him forward. As he crested the dune, his legs gave way beneath him and he fell to his knees.
Romal realized death was upon him. Such a short life. He had only escaped from Maroch and set out into the world a year earlier, and now his bones would whiten where no one was likely to ever find them. Propping himself up on one arm, he wiped his burning eyes with the back of one hand. Romal took a deep shuddering breath as unexpected hope returned.
Before him, in a shallow valley, were trees and grass and a town of stone buildings. He could see people and camels walking about. For one instant, the Mongrel thought he must be delirious and only seeing what he wanted to see. It didn't matter. He wanted to live. Romal drew on final resources he hadn't known he possessed. He rose again but fell, tumbling down the sand toward the town.
When he reached level ground, where sand gave way to dry dirt, Romal fought his way back up to his feet again. He stood with feet braced well apart, head spinning, as a man approached him.
The townsman was a typical Khebiran, short and lean and dark, with glossy straight black hair. He wore a loose white garment of thin cotton that reached to his ankles and he had a gourd slung from one shoulder.
When he saw that gourd, Romal almost wept with joy. He croaked "Water?" through ragged lips.
Stepping closer, the Khebiran sneered. "What do you have to offer in exchange, foreigner?"
Romal's hand darted out to close around the man's throat like the deadly jaws of a crocodile. Even weakened near death, that grip was painfully tight. As the Khebiran gasped and wriggled ineffectually to break free, the Mongrel seized the gourd and popped out its cork with a thumb. The water inside was lukewarm and smelled of vinegar but he had never tasted anything better. Even in his extremity, Romal remembered to sip slowly and not gulp down the entire contents as he wanted to.
Other townspeople had drawn near, including several women with their hair drawn up in colorful turbans, half-naked children peering out from behind them. None seemed eager to interfere. Romal's stern face and his greater size, not to mention the sword at his left hip, deterred them. When the gourd was empty, the Mongrel felt his head clear a little. He released the Khebiran who had started to turn purple in the face.
"Is this how you welcome travelers?" the Mongrel demanded.
( the rest of the story )
12/3-12/4/1212 DR
I.
His horse had died four days earlier. Piece by piece, Romal had been forced to discard the gear he had tried to carry across the desert. Under the vicious Khebir sun, he had trudged toward the horizon without hope, only stubborn determination. Even his unnatural strength and endurance were reaching their limits.
Created by the Darthan Kjes using forbidden arts, Romal the Mongrel seemed to be a normal Human man barely twenty years old, with shaggy black hair and dark blue eyes under heavy brows. He was over six feet in height and powerfully built but even that was still deceptive. In his body was the full strength of a Fighting Troll and the speed of a Snake man, as well as traits from the other Seven Races. But he had limits like all flesh and blood, and he was reaching them.
Romal had tried to sleep during the worst of the daytime heat, digging a pit in the sand and covering himself with his cloak. At night, the Khebir desert cooled slightly but not enough. Today he had felt weakened so much that he had spurred himself in a half-unconscious effort to reach some sort of refuge.
He still wore his boots, black pants and blue tunic, with the Signarm-made sword hanging from its baldric. Sheathed at his belt was the wide-bladed knife that was meant to be more tool than weapon. The yellow cloak had been pulled up over his head to provide what shade it could. His lips were so swollen and cracked that he could not close his mouth. The sweat that had been trickling in his eyes had stopped, which was a bad sign indeed.
The sun was low behind him. His shadow stretched out black and distorted over the unmeasured miles of hot sand in front. The Mongrel was no longer fully aware of why he still fought to live. It was deep in his nature to never yield. Ahead of him was another in the endless series of dunes and he forced his aching body to keep carrying him forward. As he crested the dune, his legs gave way beneath him and he fell to his knees.
Romal realized death was upon him. Such a short life. He had only escaped from Maroch and set out into the world a year earlier, and now his bones would whiten where no one was likely to ever find them. Propping himself up on one arm, he wiped his burning eyes with the back of one hand. Romal took a deep shuddering breath as unexpected hope returned.
Before him, in a shallow valley, were trees and grass and a town of stone buildings. He could see people and camels walking about. For one instant, the Mongrel thought he must be delirious and only seeing what he wanted to see. It didn't matter. He wanted to live. Romal drew on final resources he hadn't known he possessed. He rose again but fell, tumbling down the sand toward the town.
When he reached level ground, where sand gave way to dry dirt, Romal fought his way back up to his feet again. He stood with feet braced well apart, head spinning, as a man approached him.
The townsman was a typical Khebiran, short and lean and dark, with glossy straight black hair. He wore a loose white garment of thin cotton that reached to his ankles and he had a gourd slung from one shoulder.
When he saw that gourd, Romal almost wept with joy. He croaked "Water?" through ragged lips.
Stepping closer, the Khebiran sneered. "What do you have to offer in exchange, foreigner?"
Romal's hand darted out to close around the man's throat like the deadly jaws of a crocodile. Even weakened near death, that grip was painfully tight. As the Khebiran gasped and wriggled ineffectually to break free, the Mongrel seized the gourd and popped out its cork with a thumb. The water inside was lukewarm and smelled of vinegar but he had never tasted anything better. Even in his extremity, Romal remembered to sip slowly and not gulp down the entire contents as he wanted to.
Other townspeople had drawn near, including several women with their hair drawn up in colorful turbans, half-naked children peering out from behind them. None seemed eager to interfere. Romal's stern face and his greater size, not to mention the sword at his left hip, deterred them. When the gourd was empty, the Mongrel felt his head clear a little. He released the Khebiran who had started to turn purple in the face.
"Is this how you welcome travelers?" the Mongrel demanded.
( the rest of the story )
