This never happened i the game, and except the gods, none of the characters are real. enjoy
A dervish is a holy warrior who fights with a scythe, i tink thats all you need to know, this will be continued.
The dervish ran through the savannah, the heat and fatigue wearing him down. His scythe hung from his belt as he crossed the sand, the sun bearing down on him. The savannah seemed to stretch out in front of him forever, like a water painting that had been left on the shore, the paint washing away into the ocean. His vision blurred, the orange cliffs melting in to each other, the sand turning almost liquid. He had left Elona over a moon ago and taken to wandering her deserts and desolate lands, challenging all who crossed his path. His scythe had torn through countless enemies, he had reaped thousands, but now he was to die alone and ingloriously, is body savaged by time, his name lost in history. He felt a self-righteous rage surge through him. He drew his scythe.
“Gods, you may not treat me with such injustice after what I have done for you. Will not die like this.” He roared at the sky, raising his scythe. Emblazed on the blade, his motto shone in the early desert sun. In the distance, he saw something sparkle, a glint of pure light. He pushed himself on, his renewed energy coursing through his tired body, propelling him to the light. As he neared, he made out a shape on the horizon, like a man standing just out of his view. He ran, kicking up the sand with each pace, slipping and tripping through the savannah. As he neared, the sun leveled with his eyes. Blinded, he stumbled on until he fell onto the desert sand. He reached out. His hand touched something cold and hard. Slowly, his vision returned. Towering over him stood a statue, its base littered with bones, ivory and what once may have been flesh. Dried blood caked the stones, but none on the golden statue. The shrine of Grenth stood in the desert, alone. It was the perfect centre of the desert, the furthest point from humanity. The dervish gave up. He rolled onto his back, his dust covered body shaking. This had been his last hope. There was no way he could survive. This was the end. He pushed himself up, pulling himself onto the shrine. He knelt at the feet on Grenth, and prayed.
“Don’t let me die here, so undignified. I make an offering to you, to show you my devotion.” He held his scythe in his shaking hands. He placed it on the shrine, its blade shimmering. “And I make an offering of my soul.” He squeezed the blade with his left hand. Blood started to drip from his fist, dropping onto the stone. His face contorted in agony, he fainted.
A shadow fell onto the unconscious dervish. In the savannah, everything was still.
“Young traveler, your time has just begun.” A female voice echoed into his mind. He moaned, flinching as the stranger held his bleeding hand. Slowly, the pain subsided, a feeling of strange wonder over taking him. He awoke, lying against the statue of Grenth. The woman stood over him, tall and slender, clad in dirt rags. Her face was shrouded in shadow, but he could make out the features of a young woman. He looked at his hand. A thick white scar ran across his palm.
“Thank you,” he whispered, pushing himself up. He felt light headed, but fine. “Who are you.”
The woman laughed quietly, and he could make out a smile in the shadows.
“I saw you, and thought you needed help.” Her head turned to the pool of blood and his scythe. “Making a prayer to Grenth in a situation like ours isn’t a brilliant plan. It’s risky. He now has you in his debt. You prayed for you to be saved, and you are. Even if it was luck, you are now his servant, and he may ask anything of you.” She looked at the ground. “It’s never good to be in the debt of a god.” She held out her hand to him. He frowned and took it. Her hand was soft, almost velvety. She pulled him up to his feet, dust falling off his clothes.
“Why is it so bad?” he asked, picking up his scythe and strapping it to his belt.
“Because now, he may ask anything of you, and you are entitled to do it. He may ask you to take you life for him, and you have no choice. You surrendered your will and choices to him.” She smiled and looked at him, her face more visible. “But let us not dwell on that, we need to find a way to safety.” She took his hand and started to walk west, towards the mountains. He stopped her, a questioning look in his eyes.
“How do you know it’s that way?” he asked, confused. He hadn’t seen which way she had came from, but it hadn’t been anywhere to suggest that there was safety that way. She smiled and pulled him towards her, their faces brushing.
“Trust me.” She whispered into his ear. He felt himself go red. He hadn’t been this close to a woman before. She laughed and pulled him along next to her. Slowly, they left the shrine to the desert, to become alone again. The statue glittered. The pool of blood lay at its feet. Tiny bubbles started to appear in the blood. It started to bubble furiously, steam rising from the pool, hissing and splashing. A foot stamped into the pool, splattering the boiling blood across the stones. A light mist rose from the boot, crawling along the stones. As the blood fell onto the stones, it shattered, frozen. Grenth watched them disappear, his low gasping breath the new sound of the desert.
The dervish and the woman had walked for hours through the lifeless savannah. The sun had shrunk behind the horizon, the savannah quickly left in darkness.
“We’ll stay here tonight, we can’t walk any further without getting lost.” The woman announced, sitting on the sand, pulling him down. He fell onto her, a mess of limbs. She laughed as he tried to push himself away, embarrassed. She was so mysterious, this stranger. He hadn’t even properly seen her face; he didn’t even know her name, yet her he was, lying on her. He pushed himself up, wiping his forehead. She lay on the floor, looking up at him.
“Just as it was getting interesting?” She mused. He felt himself go red. How could she be so intimate with someone she had never met, or even knew the name of? She smiled and pushed herself onto her haunches, brushing strands of hair from under her hood. He brushed of his hood, laying it on the desert floor, wiping his face with the back of his hand. She watched him from the shadows, smiling. He took out his scythe and started inspecting the blade. It was dirty, dust and mud caked to it with blood. The handle was worn and the leather strapping was starting to fade and weaken. He looked through his bag, but his salvage kit was empty. He threw away the remains, tossing them to the side of him. The girl cocked her head. He was so intrigued in his scythe that he had lost interest n her. She slipped off her hood and tossed her head back, flicking her hair. Gently she squeezed his arm.
“I’m Dyanwa.”
Manta walked through the crowded streets of Kamadan, the hustle and bustle average for the great city. She was medium height, with long mousy hair and vivid blue eyes. She was pretty and slim, but had a worried look on her face. The jewel of Istan it was named, but in the city itself, the name was all but a lie. Spies, agents and assassins walked the streets and squares, each looking for paying customers. And there were so many. She crossed the great square, looking at all the travelers and merchants chattering amongst the chaos. She walked up the stone steps to the great arch leading to the desert. The portal stood there, high and mighty, keeping the city safe and the creatures at bay. Lined up alongside the great walls were adventures and mercenaries, each ready to aid travelers, in hope of gaining some treasure for themselves. She watched them as they called out, offering their services, boasting their skills. She knew that they were good, but weak in comparision to the others. In the outposts they were double as good, each natural born fighters and healers.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Egan. His long brown hair covered most of his face. He was tall and strong looking, dressed in baggy trousers and a loose fitting shirt. He was talking to a dervish, admiring his great scythe. She caught snatches of their conversation, and immediately knew what it was about.
“Next season we’ll be taking a group to the gates of desolation, but the closest target you could reach at this age is the march to Fahranur, and that in itself is going to be the hardest thing you’ll begin with. They’ve got creatures that could tear you apart, and Corsair fleets that’ll slaughter teams in seconds. You’d better be ready, ‘cos I won’t be carrying your corpse home.” The dervish grinned at Egan’s face. “And you’ll need you own weapon, we don’t hand the out with the warm milk.” He chuckled, Egan turning red.
The dervish finished as Manta reached them, turning from him suddenly. Egan was about to snap back at him when he saw her. He gulped and quickly started to try coming up with an explanation, but Manta turned and stormed off.
He shouted a thanks to the dervish and chased after Manta. She ran across the square with Egan trailing behind her, dodging the people where packed in. She ran up the stairs and turned left, throwing Egan enough to get out of his reach. She ran up the stairs leading to a platform overlooking the harbor. Egan broke into a sprint and caught her arm swiveling her round. To his surprise, there were tears in her eyes. She pushed him away and turned to the sea, leaning against the wall, sniffing gently. Egan bit his lip. He hated seeing Manta crying. He walked up to her and held her hands, pulling her into an embrace. She sobbed and dug her face into his neck, shaking. They stood there holding each other for what seemed like hours, neither daring to let go. Finally Egan held her shoulders and looked at her face. She seemed so vulnerable.
“You told me you wouldn’t talk about leaving again.” She whimpered. “You promised me Egan.” He felt a sting of guilt in his heart, like a poisoned dagger. He looked into her eyes.
“I can’t stay here forever, I have to go.” He sighed. “Everyone has to do their part, there’s going to be a war, everyone’s talking about it. The only way to stop it is to annihilate the threat. We have to stop the threat, and I have to help them.” He stroked her hair. “You know how much this means to me.” He cupped her chin so they were both making eye contact “You know how much you mean to me. The only way you can be safe is if the war is stopped. That’s why I have to fight.” Tears ran down her face, but he brushed them away with his finger tips.
She shook, her arms wrapped around Egan. “Promise me you’ll come back to me Egan,” She muttered into his shoulder. “Promise me, and mean it. Keep it, don’t break it like all the others, I need you to swear, if it’s the last thing I’ll ask you.” She stroked his cheek. “I need you. Promise me you’ll come back.”
Egan smiled, resting his chin on the top of her head.
“I swear on Dwayna that this will be the promise I keep. I’ll come back,” He whispered, “For you.” They stood there until the sun left the sky and the bustling adventurers returned to where they had come from and the last merchants were packing up, wrapped in each others arms and lost in each others souls. A cold, chill wind whipped through the city, like the fingers of Grenth, stroking Kamadan.
“Lets go home.” He whispered to her, squeezing her waist. She smiled and leant against his shoulder, entwining her fingers in his. They walked down the steps and across the flag stoned walkways, hand in hand. They walked for minutes in the silent night, through the city until they reached the suburbs. Egan pulled Manta towards him and put his hands on her hips. He slowly moved closer to her, their faces millimeters away. Her lips shook as she closed her eyes and moved in. Their lips brushed. He kissed her and stole all her fears, absorbing them into him, killing them in his mind. Her breathing became smoother, gentler as they kissed, her chest heaving in and out. Egan pulled away, smiling. He wrapped his arm around her waist and walked on, puling her into a long passionate kiss every few steps. Finally over half an hour later, they reached Manta’s house.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, I’ll make up for today.” He whispered, stroking her back. She sighed and smiled, pressing a finger to his lips. He grinned, planted one last kiss on her lips and turned, walking away through the streets. She smiled and smoothed down her dress before walking through the door way. Egan turned, blew her a kiss, and carried on into the darkness.
From the shadows of a nearby house, a figure watched, hidden by the darkness.
As Egan walked back to the square, he thought about what Manta and the Dervish had said. ‘They’ve got creatures that could tear you apart, and Corsair fleets that’ll slaughter teams in seconds. You’d better be ready, ‘cos I won’t be carrying your corpse home.’ He shuddered. Maybe he was right. Maybe he wasn’t ready to go, he was fourteen, no age to go to war. But he thought of Manta. If he didn’t fight, then she might be hurt, possibly killed. Corresponding thoughts broke out in his mind. If he stayed though, he could protect her. In his struggle to get a right answer, he didn’t notice a figure standing in the centre of the square.
Egan raised his head, the thoughts tearing at his mind, in time to see the stranger. In each hand, he held a scythe, elegant and deadly. He turned round, but there was no one to see. It was him and this person. He was dressed in black, every part of his body covered in the black material. Egan readied himself. The figure raised his head. Egan clenched his fists. All was silent.
The figure moved faster than Egan had ever seen, raising one scythe, throwing the other. It curved, sinning through the air like a hawk, the blades slicing through the night. It almost gleamed as it glided towards him. Egan raised his hand in front of him. He concentrated. The scythe fell into his open hand. Would make Father proud, he thought smiling. He raised the scythe like the strangers, mimicking his moves. The stranger didn’t seem surprised by his trick. Almost amused. They stood there, locked in combat, each waiting for the other to strike. Following the law of combat, each waiting for the enemy to make the first move. The silence was deafening. The figure seemed relaxed. Egan made the first move, slashing at the figure, the bade gleaming as the moonlight shimmered off the metal. Just as he was about to strike, he drew back, seeing his error. This had been what the stranger had been expecting. The cloaked figure threw a slice down, scratching Egan’s blade throwing it out of control. He quickly recovered, but the stranger was too fast. He broke into a barrage of accurate stabs and short hacks, pushing Egan back. He almost tripped over his feet as he defended himself from the attack. Egan frowned. This wasn’t how he fought. This person had caught him by surprise. Now that the element was lost, Egan had equal chances. He pushed forward, catching the stranger’s blade, flicking it to the side. The attacker flinched and lurched, unaware of Egan’s capability. He threw his foot into the stranger’s chest, almost toppling him to the ground. Egan’s fighting methods were crude, leant from the streets of the city, but highly effective as he had learnt. He mixed his fathers teaching with the back alley fighting of Kamadan, creating a technique of skill and force.
He swung the scythe down towards the Stranger, but at the last moment the stranger threw himself up, scythe in hand, deflecting the blow. Egan arched to the side and the stranger butted him in the ribs with the handle of the scythe. Winded, he fell to the floor. The figure stood over him. Expecting the finishing blow, Egan winced. He had underestimated the assailant, been to sure in himself. This stranger was an expert. He opened an eye. The figure stood over him, holding Egan’s scythe out to him. Egan shook his head and reached up. He winced as his ribs stung, but took the scythe. The figure nodded and pulled him up, strapping his own scythe to his belt. Egan leant against the stone wall, nursing his ribs. The figure pulled down his hood, revealing a scarred worn face of a middle aged man. He grinned to Egan, a charismatic smile.
“You can keep that,” he said in a strong voice that made every nerve in his body tingle. “Strong lad like you needs a good weapon.” Egan nodded, amazed, mouth wide open. The strange man pulled out a water skin from his cloaks and took a large gulp, offering it to Egan. Egan took the bottle thankfully in one hand, nursing his bruised ribs in the other. “You don’t need any help protecting yourself I see,” the man said, “But try to think tactically. There’s always someone better than you, never underestimate an enemy compared to yourself.” He looked towards the sky. The moon was full now, a white fist in the sky. He turned back to Egan, shaking his head. “Its time for me to be going again.” He murmured. He reached out and squeezed Egan’s shoulder. “Do it for her. Do what’s right.” With his last words, he stood and turned, walking up the steps.
“Wait!” Egan called out. The man stopped, but didn’t turn to Egan. “Who are you?” The man laughed.
“I am No one. I am the shadow you see you of the corner of your eye when you need to know you’re not alone.” He turned, smiling. “For a name, I am Ill. For who I am though, not even I know.” And with that, he disappeared into the night.
The night passed, silently and peacefully. The streets were quiet. Only in the houses was there life. In Egan’s house, the only sound was that of bating fists and dull thuds. In Manta’s home, the sound of sweet singing cut through the tick night air.
Just outside the city, the stranger stopped. He smiled, a shadow appearing behind him.
“Did you find him Ill?” the voice was raspy and sharp, like a blade cutting through ice. Ill turned and bowed his head.
“Yes milord. And you were right; he is strong, stronger than me anyway.” He reached under his cloak and pulled out a strange talisman. “Without your aid, I would not be here.” He held out the talisman. Slowly, a cloaked arm reached out. A grey hand slipped from the sleeve and grasped the talisman. Ill’s eyes widened as her took it, his teeth chattering. Ill’s hand was encrusted in ice. “And my reward?” he stuttered, holing his frozen hand.
“As I promised.” A map lay on the floor. “Now leave.” Ill picked up the map, looking down for a brief second. When he looked back up, he stared into the eyes of a statue.
“As we promised.”
The Dervish felt the girl squeeze his arm. He turned, and his eyes widened like dinner plates. Her hood lay next to her, so he could finally see her face.
“I’m Dyanwa.” Her face was smooth and beautiful, with sparkling green eyes and long light brown hair. His jaw dropped. She reached out and gently tapped his chin, looking disconcerted. He shook his head, feeling like a complete idiot. She smiled, brushing his face with her hand. “I think this is the part where you tell me who you are?”
“Rahotep. Or, I was before I left.”
