Ah, the Sim Edin, the great desert better known as the Whispering Wastes. It is said that the people of the deep desert of Sim Edin, the Nas Al-Rimal, worship no gods. That is false. For centuries, these so-called primitives have worshipped the very land that sustains them: the Sim Edin itself.
The desert is both their god and their adversary, a vast expanse of shifting dunes and jagged rocks that seems to breathe and pulse with a life of its own. The people of Sim Edin, hardened by generations under the relentless sun, have learned to read the subtle signs and whispers of the desert, treating it with the reverence one would show a deity. They believe the desert speaks to those who listen, revealing secrets buried beneath the sands and warning of dangers that lie ahead.
The Nas Al-Rimal live in scattered tribes, each with its own customs and rites, yet united in their veneration of the desert. Their rituals are stark and brutal, much like the land they inhabit. When a child is born, they are taken to the heart of a dune at dawn, their tiny body placed on the burning sand, to be judged by the desert itself. If the child survives until the sun reaches its zenith, they are deemed blessed by Sim Edin and welcomed into the tribe. Those who perish are said to have been claimed by the desert, their souls becoming part of its eternal essence.
Life in Sim Edin is a ceaseless struggle against the elements. The sun blazes mercilessly during the day, and at night, the temperature plunges, bringing a chill that cuts to the bone. Water is more precious than gold, and the tribes have learned to draw it from the most unlikely places – the heart of a cactus, the morning dew trapped in the folds of a dune, or the rare and sacred oasis that appears like a mirage in the distance.
The birth of the Green Road is their most holy and reverent of events. The tribes flock as one, putting aside any and all conflict, to the straight river, collecting and storing as much fresh water as they can. They detest, but tolerate, the foreigners traveling across the Green Road. They trade with them only reluctantly or toll them with great glee excessively. Such is the way of the people of the sands.
The Nas Al-Rimal are nomads, constantly moving to avoid the wrath of the sandstorms that can swallow entire legions. Their tents are made from the hides of the desert beasts they hunt, their food a mix of dried meats, hardy grains, and the occasional sweet date plucked from the rare palm tree that dares to grow in such a harsh climate.
Among them, the storytellers hold a place of honor. These bards of the sands weave tales of ancient heroes who tamed the wild desert, of battles fought under the scorching sun, and of the mysteries that lie hidden beneath the sands. They speak of the Guardians, colossal serpentine creatures that dwell in the deepest part of the desert, their scales the color of the volcanic rock, their breath hotter than a furnace. Some say the Guardians are the protectors of the desert's greatest treasure, others believe them to be the very embodiment of the desert's fury.
In this land of extremes, the people of Sim Edin have forged a bond with their environment that is as unbreakable as the desert itself. They do not fear the desert; they respect it, honor it, and in their own way, love it. To them, the Sim Edin is not just a place – it is a living, breathing entity, a great spirit that walks among them, shaping their lives and destinies with each grain of sand that shifts in the wind.
- The Fanciful Travels by Beron de Laney 376 AC.
The boy Rogiere smiled inanely, rubbing his hands together as he showed me the way. He had an intense, yet unfocused stare, as he looked this way and that which was unnerving to say the least. No doubt he was an idiot or mentally challenged.
He led me across a gravel-strewn path through various buildings to the heart of the compound. We passed all sorts of men and women, mostly of Western-looking descent—Aranthian, if I had to guess from their accents and speech. Local laborers, whether indentured or otherwise, were also present, transporting heavy bundles, cleaning, cooking, and performing countless other tasks assigned to the help.
Most of the men here were armed to various degrees, and those that were bore the sign of the Bull on their breast. Due to this, despite it being the beating heart of a criminal organization in the city, the compound felt more like a poorly run military camp—perhaps a small militarized colony, if I had to put a finger on it.
In fact, the only visible sign of criminality was seeing two soldiers pawing a girl who was clearly underage. I looked away, trying to erase the sight from my mind. I had a greater purpose, but I felt I had betrayed a part of myself by not intervening.
Rogiere led me to a structure that looked like a cross between a fortified mansion and a keep. Squat and made of sandstone, it dominated the compound. Four guards stood at the entrance, hard-eyed men who looked like they had done harder things. I sampled their information, immediately cursing myself for wasting my Mana. Low-level trash that were not worthy of regard. A part of me was glad that whoever designed or created this world, for better or worse, had not included autoscaling in its architecture.
“Me… Meeting the boss man,” Rogiere stuttered as he bobbed his head at the guards and me before wandering off, rubbing his hands and laughing. As he returned to whatever tasks awaited him, I wondered if the holy magic of Greater Heal could cure the malady of his mind.
"What have we got here?" started one of them, a burly fellow who was almost as wide as he was tall. Not fat, I noted, but composed of meaty chunks of muscle.
The man spoke as Cordelia did, rougher, but with the same lilting patterns of accent. My own accent would seem at least different, perhaps foreign to him, stained as it was with the local influence. A layer of deceit that would work in my favor.
Here we go again. I was almost tempted to start my reign of havoc right then and there, but thought better of it. It would be wise to at least try to handle this diplomatically. To milk the element of surprise for whatever it was worth.
“I am of the City Guard under orders from the Captain Alim of House Alim to deliver an urgent message in person to your boss,” I declared in an imperious voice.
“Alright, that be all well and good,” he admitted with a small nod. “But, you’ll be needing to leave your weapons here with us.”
I straightened, bristling at his command as I imagined a member of the City Guard would. "I see that you mistake me for casual scum of your ilk. I am a Guard of the Council, permitted my arms at all times and in all places. Stop playing these childish games and allow me entry to deliver my message, or bring your leader outside. I care not which. Or perhaps an inspection of this compound for illicit contraband is in order," I demanded, my casual disdain helping to cement my bluff. “Or, are the Bulls so afraid of a single man?”
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An older guard, his face a map of scars and wrinkles, signaled to the wide one with a quick motion of his head to let us through. The old man opened the door for me, and together we stepped into the main entrance.
It was a gorgeous display of muted, elegant wealth. Twin staircases, carved from alabaster marble with ebony rails, ran up to the second floor. The floors were a patterned mosaic of purples, reds, and light blues in an arabesque pattern. A magnificent display of cut flowers set in a large mist jade vase served as the centerpiece, drawing the eye. The scent of the flowers mingled with the cool air of the chamber, a sharp contrast to the dust and heat outside. I resisted the urge to let my gaze wander further, lest I be mistaken for a country boor.
We were met by a round, fat man wearing tightly fitting black and white silks, with lace frills at his sleeves and collar. He waddled slightly due to his girth, giving him the appearance of a constipated penguin. The seneschal of this manse, I guessed.
The fat man sniffed at us condescendingly. "Who is this, Nolan?"
“Vivek,” the old guard Nolan acknowledged. “A member of the Guard with a message for the Master. He claims it is urgent business.”
“This simply will not do, Nolan! The Master Deschanel will not see anyone without a prior appointment. There is a reason that things must be done as they are…” Vivek almost squealed in protest.
The fat man gathered himself and commanded gruffly, “Wait here a moment. I will need to announce you to Master Deschanel.” Without further ado, he sniffed again and made his way up the stairs. Nolan and I waited silently in the hallway, like supplicants at a temple.
A few long minutes later, Vivek called out from the top of the stairs, “He will see you now!” I started to make my way up, with Nolan following a pace behind. A glare from Vivek stopped the older man in his tracks, making him shrug his shoulders and turn around.
Alone, I climbed the stairs to the right, ignoring the various pieces of artwork displayed on the walls. Once I reached the top of the stairs, Vivek gave me a nod and gestured for me to follow him down the corridor.
In contrast to the subdued elegance of the main hallway entrance, the corridor was lined with what seemed to be the ravaged spoils of far-off kingdoms. A brigand’s horde.
Tapestries of fine weave, banners, and silk pennants were strewn across the walls with little regard for their placement. There, a jeweled sword hung on the wall, its bent and broken blade a testament to its failure. Nearby, a decorated helm inlaid with sapphire and ruby lay cracked upon a wooden pedestal. Trophies of war, if I were not mistaken. The owner of this place clearly wanted to make a statement.
Vivek knocked twice on a wooden door, announcing my presence in his shrill voice before opening it for me. It felt like I was being introduced to court.
I stepped into the heart of the dragon’s den with a lion’s smile.
Into the heart of opulence. Gold, gold was everywhere. It adorned the walls, the windows were edged in it, even the corners of the tiles on the floor. A king’s ransom of it was on decadent, almost garish display.
A man sat behind a wide wooden desk inlaid with precious metal. Wings of white streaked through his raven hair at the sides, framing an angular face. His sharp, dark eyes had a slight upward tilt, and a patrician's nose perched above a mouth perpetually twisted into a smirk. I found myself disliking him immediately.
Behind him stood a bald giant that rivaled Kidu in size, a mountain of bone and muscle that looked like he could crush my skull with his bare hands. The giant wore a series of interlocking bone plates for armor, his helm the skull of a horned animal.
In the corner of the room, a study or office if I was to be precise, a mousy scribe of nondescript features sat hunched over a small desk, writing entries into a record. On any other day, my eyes would have overlooked him, but there was something to him that I could not quite place a finger on.
On a cushioned divan, two raven-haired women lounged in almost scandalous clothing, drinking wine from delicately fluted glasses distracted me. Like seneschal, their sleeves with frilled with lace, but the bodices were cut low. Were they still, they could have been taken for words of art. The women were cut from the same bolt of fine cloth, sisters I deduced. A twin sight that threatened to trap the eye.
“You have a message for me? Speak, and be quick about it. Also, I would know the face and name of the one that speaks in the name of the Council,” the man behind the desk commanded, drawling the last of his syllables. This man, he did have an Aranthian accent, which I found odd.
“The message is for the foreigner Deschanel only,” I stated testily. “I am under orders to reveal nothing else, only to deliver my message. You do not need to know my face or my name. I have family in the city, and I will not be threatened by the likes of you.”
“Speaking!” The man behind the desk rolled his head back and let out a confident laugh. There was something forced behind it, an element of poor theater. I sensed a lie, but couldn't discern the true reason for it.
“You have some backbone, don’t you? The balls on you. You must be one of those high-level Nee-pee-shees!” the sharp-eyed man added jovially, still chuckling to himself.
The women shared a guilty glance, and the scribe in the corner paused in his writing, stiffening as if he had suffered an insult.
I clenched my fists at the being called an NPC. How dare he! Wait a moment… wait a moment… Him, the voices demanded, whispering in the silent places of mind. Trusting them, but wanting confirmation nonetheless, I cast Identify on the man behind the desk. The man with the false laugh. A desire, a consuming need, I wanted him more than anything. My face flushed and I was glad that my features were hidden behind a layer of metal links.
Randal Jeffries - Flame Warden [Human lvl.19]
Health: 261/261
Stamina: 36/36
Mana: 16/16
Randal, Randal, Randal. His sixteen Mana compared to my twenty-two revealed him as a magic user, albeit a poor one. He was vastly inferior to me in every way. My soul sang to me, urging me to take his life. Flame Warden or not.
How sweet your attempt at poor deception, the voices whispered. Do it, they cried, their incessant whispers like a lover in the throes of passion. How easy it would be to surrender to the allure of crimson violence. Randal, I want you so. But wait a while, for there is something I must know, the voices and I whispered together in unison to ourselves.
My thoughts came in a rolling rush, disorganized and addled with wanton desire. Causation and fate are required for the destined to meet. I had sensed the markings of fate before; her shadow had been cast many times over my life. Her hand, I felt, was in this encounter, Quest or no Quest. Following this thread, this calling of the universe, I sent my magic to taste the scribe in the corner.
Aschart Deschanel - Rogue [Human lvl.15]
Health:206/206
Stamina:37/38
Mana:17/17
It was my turn to laugh now. A Rogue with high Mana, how adorable. Did he not know how to build a character?