In the year 2843 Old World Wares, a pawnshop in a humble village named Tendha, was the envy of all the shopkeepers in Nothern Africa. Farukh, as the owner of the establishment, had a vice grip on the collectable goods market in the region. No shop had rarities like his. Clientele was made-up of mercenaries and curious collectors that were not afraid to pay.

Farukh was a master at excavating. He did not shirk on reading ancient texts and studying historical cities. His knowledge on the subject matter positioned him to be able to dig in the right places with the right items in mind. This process usually took him time, but he calculated his steps and planned thoroughly when it came time to embark. Barring some occasional losses, he usually fared well in his endeavours.

Humans had buried the old world so Farukh knew that underneath lay relics and treasures. Cutlery and silverware for eating, jewels and diamonds hidden in safes that once belonged under beds and behind hidden walls. When held in one’s hands these items had an enchanting quality about them. They highlighted the prestige and human dignity that once existed among men, something far removed from the time Farukh found himself living in.

These treasures carried something ethereal, intangible, yet powerful. Human life of the old times highlighted a chapter of mankind’s victories and triumphs. It was a time without suffering and Farukh was one of many merchants that monetized people’s sense of nostalgia for a past unfamiliar.

The shop was styled like an old world store. Back then people would dedicate a whole building to selling items. They would have paid exorbitant amounts in rent. In Farukh’s time most vendors sold goods on the street market and not stores.

The storefront was usually where Farukh would be, chatting to loyal customers and greeting those that walked into his shop. He controlled the atmosphere of the shop from here, heightening the customers’ sense of curiosity with tales of great excavations and recent findings.

On the day he fled, three characters walked into Farukh’s shop.

Farukh greeted them excitedly, eager to help if any were in need of assistance. One of them had asked him to accompany them to the back of the shop, where they displayed the valuable cutlery. The individual had a certain Arabic accent that sounded familiar to Farukh.

He accompanied the men, but as he walked behind them he suddenly realized that they were bulkier and broad-shouldered. This was different from most of Farukh’s regular customers. He somewhat dismissed his suspicions, however. On occasion a mercenary or sojourner would wander into the store for wares or collectables. He understood that being situated close to Zaraneth, a city north of Tendha, meant that sometimes certain characters may wander into the village.

His stomach began to tie itself into a knot, for some reason. He knew that should the men try anything he’d be outnumbered, but he gave into his sense of safety within the shop. Surely nobody would try anything in the shop? Ahead of them the isle for the cutlery signalled entry into the isle.

Just as he turned to his left to go into the shop’s “old pottery” aisle he received a kick in the stomach. Farukh was dazed, disgruntled and confused for a moment. He had fallen down from the blow as he saw stars. He began feeling a sharp pain in his stomach. More kicks followed

After one of them whispered they all stopped and the other two helped him up. He writhed and swore, coughing loudly. By now people began to notice the commotion in the isle. His stomach felt like it would tear open any minute.

One of the attackers began to address him: “Are you Farukh Tarmael?” he asked.

“So no ‘hello, how you doing’?”. Farukh still had a tinge of wit even though his stomach hurt.

With this, his interrogator pretended to throw a punch to the gut and noticed that Farukh didn’t flinch. His eyes darted to him, irritation visible through his Khimaar. Farukh continued “Look, friend. You are not the first person that has come into this shop with ill-intentions to harm me so if…”

As Farukh spoke he was interrupted by another front kick to the stomach.

For a few moments all that could be heard was Farukh’s shouts of agony.

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After he calmed down for a bit the interrogator moved closer and Farukh could smell cigarette stained breath. His eyes were austere, brows intense from irritation.

“I will ask, final time. You will tell me truth, or you die”

“Fine” Farukh snarled. He thought he would cough out a major organ. His eyes looked beyond the Khimaar-hidden figure and noticed that a small crowd had gathered behind him. He wondered why the whole ordeal had drawn out so long without the help of a bystander.

The fiend spoke: “I’m sure you hoped we wouldn’t find out, right?” The interrogator brandished a knife to Farukh’s throat. His eyes suddenly lit up with elation. “I should kill you right now.”

Faint screams and shrieks could be heard from around them. Whispers and sounds of people yelling “don’t look” filled the isle.

One of the other men that had held Farukh’s arms spoke in Arabic, discouraging his friend from killing Farukh. The interrogator had his eyes fixed on Farukh and he said “The Boss will know of your crimes and order us to get you. You will cooperate with us and lead us to the girl. When we come back, you had better be ready to talk. Do not even try to run. Remember, we have eyes everywhere. We’ll kill you on the spot”.

After they shattered a few vases and Old World chandeliers the trio left the shop. Farukh was helped up by some customers and a few workers of his. Someone recommended that he see a nurse, but Farukh refused. He had to weigh his options. Once he gathered the strength he went into his office.

Farukh ordered that the store be closed for the day on account of the commotion in the shop. He only had a few hours before sundown and he wanted to make use of the time. He began to pack a small bag that had a gun and some supplies for the journey ahead. He would wait right until the sun was close to setting completely and make his escape then.

Sunset approached and, sure enough, he had disguised himself and mounted his camel, Lousa. Many people came out to enjoy the cool air of the dusk and the horizon hid a sun that barely peeked through. At dusk the village came alive and people came out from their homes and shanties. Shepherds were returning, workers came home and devout boozers ventured to drinking spots.

The village was abuzz with chatter, gossip and the distant sounds of sheep bleating and cows mooing. Everyone knew the locals, but passersby were so frequent that people would not bat an eye at the sight of a stranger. This was what Farukh hoped for, as he had disguised with the hopes of fleeing undetected.

He rode the beast northward. He reserved a calm, eyes transfixed on the northern horizon. People could not tell it was him, but a few people gave him a second glance, almost as though they could make out a familiar figure. They opted to not greet, rather. For the locals Farukh was usually warm and friendly, but this character seemed too different.

Lousa strolled on. He saw the sun on his left as the skies grew darker. With each time he blinked the sky dimly flared with an orange hue. There was a darkness that was Northward. He supposed that it might be a foreshadowing of the days that lay ahead. He grimaced at the thought and giggled it off.

With a few houses left he checked his coast, looking left and right. Thinking he was in the clear he rode on when suddenly he heard the sound of hooves hitting the ground. He glanced back to see the three characters that jumped him earlier in the day. The village people noticed galloping camels and shrieked, gasped and looked in bepuzzlement.

The first shot that was sent off scattered them all as the sounds of doors being flung open and loud footsteps of running could be heard. “Thought you could run from us, killer?!” one of them shouted.

Lousa made a run for it. The soundtrack of his escape was the shots that reigned in from old magnums and nine millimeter glocks. Just in time, however, Farukh managed to hide behind a wall.

His heart was beating loudly as silence fell. The dust from the camels galloping blew passed Farukh who now looked ahead at the northward horizon, but was terrified to move without alerting his pursuers. He waited as the dust settled.

He removed the gun from his bag behind him while on the Camel and drew a deep breath. One gallop from a house to the other could afford him a window to fire at them. He knew he had a small chance of making it out alive, but he would be a betting man. He counted.

He and Lousa pounced, riding from behind one house to the next. He hoped to surprise his pursuers. At this he had successfully fired several shots in their direction. He heard one scream. He then galloped into the distance. He had hoped they were slowed down, but he would be ready to die trying to escape.

He rode and rode. Galloping and his breath was all he could hear. Nobody had followed. Oddly enough, he had escaped them despite believing that he was cornered. He began to smile, happy that his plan had taken shape. He slowed the creature down.

The light was dim and Farukh noticed that he would need to make a contingency plan. He would have preferred to be in a shelter by dark or at least start a fire, but he did not have the luxury. He hopped off the camel.

Farukh’s heart almost stopped at what he saw next. Looking behind the creature he saw droplets of blood. He now remembered that when attempting the daring feat to escape he had also been shot at.At once, the pain became unbearable. The cold air of the desert night swept in invasively. Suddenly, he was faced with a tough decision. He had no idea if those that pursued him were still on his tail. With these thoughts looming a searing pain could be felt from his ribs. He held his ribs with anguish.