The boat rocked, the man shuddered, the chill, creeping air felt piercing. The slow rhythmic rowing of the oar 

was the main focus of the man as he shook off the chill, mostly involuntarily. With each stroke the boat moved 

closer to its destination. A misty island, shrouded in mystery. The man approached closer, focusing more on the 

beating heart of the water as it crashed against his wooden boat. His own heartbeat quickened, pounding harder 

as if to escape and retreat to the safety of the Norwock shores. Norwock, being the city of the damned as they 

called it, which one might also consider mysterious but anyone living there would know better. Nothing was 

mysterious in Norwock, everyone knew why everyone else was there, and ‘everyone else’ knew that everyone 

there was destined for nothing. Again, the man thought about his wife, who he had left on those shores, the man 

considered abandoning his duty and returning to his home until they came for him, if you could call it that. He 

steeled himself and continued to row, peering deeper into the rolling mist.

Catching his breath once again, the man investigated his surroundings. The same scenery greeted him, as it 

always had. His worn boat, the wood creaking as if to protest to its current predicament as its master led it 

deeper into the unknown. The man caught his breath, the air here was thick, repulsive. It felt alive, like every

time it filled your lungs it seeped into your very being and poisoned you. Anybody would say that air was 

tasteless, certainly the same could be said here, but it felt empty, like it created a vacuum of space to fill with 

something…else, something wholly unpleasant. Caught in his thoughts the man hadn’t noticed as the boat 

suddenly came to a halt as it rolled onto the sandy shores. 

“You’re finally here.”

The man looked over, standing there was a gruff, stocky fellow. His skin was adorned with patterns and images 

of an unknown language, or perhaps a story lost to time. He wore simple cloth rags and a pair of wooden 

sandals. Aran, was the very image of strength, perhaps he didn’t have the strongest muscles or the most trained 

body or even expertise in any sort of weaponry, no, his strength lied in his strength of character. Everyone who 

had ventured to this land felt unease that pierced some part of their being, often causing very physical reactions 

of convulsions or vomiting. Others, their minds, leading to madness and imagery and hysterical proclamations 

of demons and shadows that you couldn’t possibly dream of. Aran had remained on this island to greet all those 

who might try to venture here and help them to their destination. Everyone loses something here, their minds, 

their confidence, themselves, Aran didn’t appear to have lost anything, which made him dangerous, everyone 

loses something.

“Lorian, are you just going to stand on that boat all day? You know we hate standing here on ceremony. Look, 

lets get a move on so we can get you to wherever it is you’re going.”

Yes, that was his name, Lorian, people who used to call him that had mostly been lost to time, or themselves. It 

always sounded odd hearing that name, most people here referred to you with labels or scoffs or simply gave 

you one of those looks of ‘do as I say now or you’ll wish you did.’ 

“Aran.” 

Lorian knelt down with his head firmly placed into the sand below and held out both of his palms upward. A 

custom to his nation presented to those who were considered a higher standing than them, to highlight their 

superiority.

“No, there’s no need for that here. We may be your guide and although we understand your punishment. We do 

not forget what you did or why you did it Lorian, these customs are exhausting and always seemed arrogant to 

us, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Of course, I never want to miss the opportunity to piss you off when I can Aran, staves off the boredom.”

Lorian said as he got back to his feet. They proceeded to lock arms as was customary in Aran’s nation as a sign of respect.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to you referring to yourself as ‘we’.”

“…We do not understand your confusion Lorian, we’ve always learnt to refer to ourselves as a people, rather 

than a person.”

“Well, a lot of your customs I can agree with, hell, I almost prefer them. Referring to yourself as ‘we’ rather 

than ‘I’ always seemed to remove your individuality, if I ask you a question and want your opinion, is it always 

the opinion of all your tribe?”

“Indeed, we reflect each other in what we say and do, perhaps it does get rid of a sense of individuality,

although your customs always seem to make one another seem so…alone. Part of the reason you find yourself in 

this scenario, is it not?”

Lorian suddenly felt a surge of grief, a spectre within his heart slowly crawling out, trying to grasp hold of him

and fill his mind before he caught himself and contained it. This used to affect him more deeply in the past, 

recently it’s begun to feel like an old friend. He always shut that door and tried to lock it in the fear that one day 

he might invite it back into his house and feed it until it gets big enough to take permanent residence in his 

mind.

Aran, noticing his uncomfortable deminer, clasps his shoulder and squeezed, in his standard practice of 

comforting, oddly, it worked every time.

“Sorry Lorian, we forget ourselves. We meant no offense.”

Lorian smiled at Aran and patted himself down before gesturing to lead the way.

After giving a slight bow, Aran turned around and began his ascent up the sandy hill to the stone structures 

ahead. The structures appeared derelict, haunted, the footsteps of the two echoing within the walls creating a 

musical cacophony, verging on dissonance. It was unnerving, the walls moaned under the weight of their 

histories and the sound of crumbling stone was amplified, resonating with the emotions of any unsuspecting 

traveller. Lorian steeled himself further, he was no stranger to fear, with every step he became more resolute and

his rhythmic footsteps battled with the surroundings to ward off any doubt.

The structures bared no markings or landmarks to note, the ground was smooth and uniform for as far as you 

could see, the whole area was dreary and disorientating. Lorian could only follow his guide, he knew that any 

attempt to leave would ultimately result in his death, whether by being lost and wandering, or by being found.

He followed Aran for what seemed like miles, their pace quickening with every minute, as if to test his physical 

ability, which Lorian had no problem displaying. Afterall, Lorian had plenty of experience in various situations 

that would require his physical prowess, although his hunger and thirst were testing him. Suddenly Aran slowed 

his pace to a crawl as they came to a particularly unnatural structure. It wasn’t unnatural due to anything 

mundane like its material, artistry, or the way it looked, Lorian noted, it just felt unnatural. Its stony arches were 

well maintained with nothing out of place, it seemed perfect, not in the sense of a well cooked meal that hit the 

senses just right, he didn’t know any better way to describe it than unnatural, uncanny perfection.

Before Lorian could open his mouth to speak, Aran lifted an arm and gestured for him to walk through the large 

wooden doors ahead. 

“Now Lorian, we need not remind you that you will only speak when spoken to and will show the necessary 

respect expected from our people.” Aran said with a stern expression and a hint of almost palpable danger.

Lorian understood the implications and spared no time in advancing to the doors and opened them with all the 

force he could muster, or at least he had intended as such, upon his approach they opened with no resistance, no 

sound, nothing to drown out his quickening heartbeat. As he entered, he saw a crescent dais, sitting upon it were 

three thrones of simple wood and stone. Lorian quickly noted the figures upon the thrones who were adorned 

with similar tattoos and markings of the same language from those he had seen upon Aran, immediately he 

raised his fist to his chest, put his ankles together and remained tight lipped. Lorian was always one to joke and 

prod, but there was always a time and place.

One was a woman, a buff gray skinned lady with braids in her silver hair, who wore a platemail upon her chest 

and a sword large enough for you to question her humanity rested on her back. Lorian doubted anybody could 

use a sword that large in combat effectively, he always preferred the standard longsword or sickle, anything you 

could use for cutting that didn’t break your arms in the process really. Her legs were covered with similar metal 

to the type seen on the plate mail, but her arms were bare, albeit for the markings and scars that accentuated her 

impressive muscles. Her arms still appeared slim and would give any unexperienced foe the incorrect 

impression that she was incapable of using her weapon. To Lorians surprise, the woman pulled her sword up 

and rested it upon her throne without any signs of exertion. She placed it by her throne, as if putting down a pen, 

and stepped off the dais and began to approach Lorian. She looked roughly the same age as Lorian, late 20’s 

perhaps, he guessed.

The other thrones each had two older members of Aran’s tribe, Lorian remembered the patterns across their 

arms we’re typically a symbol of a member’s clan or lineage within the tribe, the two men here shared the same 

pattern, whereas the womans had two distinct lines curling from her shoulder to her elbow, where the two lines 

joined to continue down her forearm like a snake. Lorian could’ve sworn they moved, as if alive. One was an 

older man with greying hair and a brown robe that rested upon his leather trousers and boots. He had a wooden 

stick by his side but had a similar physical presence in terms of strength to the woman earlier. He simply stared 

at Lorian with a stoic expression as if disinterested in what was happening. The other, shared similar clothing to 

the woman with an equally threatening weapon by his throne, a serrated curved blade with ridges and indents. 

Lorian identified it as a Halda, a sword capable of extending beyond what it appeared, normally only used by a 

highly skilled swordsman. Naturally, as unskilled swordsman typically ended up killing themselves before their 

opponents, so only skilled swordsman must remain. He had a harsh expression; his eyes were keenly fixed upon 

Lorian as he appraised him.

The woman came to a stop within a few feet of where Lorian stood, Lorian went down to one knee, his fist still 

on his chest.

“Stand, much like you I’m not originally a warrior of this tribe, you should be able to tell that by the shape of 

my Tribescroll.” She gestured to her arm. “I prefer to resolve matters with steel rather than pretty words or 

gestures anyway, but the tribe demands a different treatment for you.”

Lorian raised himself back to his feet and again placed his fist against his chest. The others within the room 

shared no reaction to the actions displayed as if expecting them. The woman walked over to a nearby rack, 

resting upon which were some rough, worn weapons, the rust seemed to amplify their shoddy craftsmanship.

“Axe?” The woman said with a stern voice, as if disinterested. The intonation of her voice seeped with 

authority, it was orotund but a somehow modulated voice, rough but with an appealing undertone. She spoke as 

she gestured with her eyes towards to rack.

“Longsword” Lorian said, he understood that the woman was asking for his weapon of choice.

The woman picked up a rusty but usable sword with a matching scabbard and tossed it to Lorian who deftly 

caught them and immediately placed them on his hip and reassumed his previous stance, to avoid antagonising 

his audience.

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After Lorian equipped his weapon, the others stood from their thrones, and walked either side of him, the man 

with the cloak stood at the head of the group, with the woman and similarly dressed man who had the Halda at 

Lorians flank. The cloaked man immediately urged him to follow as they led him through the stony corridors of 

this stony monument. Upon reaching a particularly large and impressive set of wooden doors, like those at the 

entrance however trimmed with a sparkling gold, creating complicated patterns within the oak. They stepped 

through and were greeted with a wooden platform overlooking the landscape below. The man came to a stop, 

Lorian would’ve noticed him pull out a container fill of a viscous liquid and begun to attach a strap to it had the 

rolling desert ahead, painted out below the platform they were standing on, not caught his attention. The sun 

reflected off the sand like gems and the grains looked like jewels. The heat created a mirage and made objects in 

the horizon look alive, like waves as the air flowed across the sands. The heat permeated Lorian, his skin was 

being cooked under the unforgiving heat and every breath he took threatened to burn his lungs. He knew what 

was coming, he just didn’t know it would look so dangerously beautiful.

“Niai Lorian, we have determined that your behaviour has engendered a storm. Inciting foul prophecy, 

endangering members of the tribe and besmirched your name, your title and your standing. Although your 

actions were unforgivable, your intentions were just. We have therefore determined to give you both the means 

to sustain yourself” The man said, in a gravelly hoarse voice, as he handed him the container of liquid. “As well 

as the ability to defend yourself.” The man gestured to the sword Lorian was holding.

“You are a friend of Aran, a member of the tribe, as such we will not kill you where you stand, as much as we

would like to. Although, we could argue that it would be a mercy. For killing a member of the tribe, even if your 

intentions were good, or they committed sins beyond their station, is unforgivable. We are a people, actions 

against a tribesman are against the tribe. You will be punished, outsider. Where it solely down to me I would 

challenge you to a Jatari with your freedom on the line, but I see no victory against an injured Niai. No, the tribe 

deems you fit for the Shard Desert.”

“Strange, your tribe always refers to themselves as we, yet you’ve voiced your personal opinion to want a duel.”

The man looked at him straight in the eye, a keen focus that conveyed a clear conscience. He wasn’t rising to 

any provocation and didn’t seem interested in entertaining any efforts to do so.

“As you already know, many of our customs allow us opinion when our station determines it so, as it stands, 

you are but a spectator Niai. You do not befriend one to befriend all. I would imagine a warrior of your standing 

would retain some level of anger after bringing yourself such shame.”

“The only shame I have, lied in the shame I brought my friends by my actions. That shame died alongside my 

wife, I thank you for letting me stay with her till the end.” Lorian said, thinking back to Aran, his closest friend 

is the battles he’d fought. He stuck with him through it all, still considering him a friend after witnessing what 

he’d done. Thinking back to his wife Clara, who although Lorian had met on the battlefield, had submitted 

himself to death, decided to follow him to his fate as far as she could.

The man in the gray robe grunted in recognition, steadying himself on his staff.

“In light of your past contributions to the tribe in our times of war and strife, we allowed you the opportunity to 

live with your wife until you passed within the walls of the damned city of Norwick. Now she has departed this 

world, and you have sought death. The sun shall now begin to set, your odds of survival are thinner than a hairs 

width Niai. When the sun doesn’t take you and the sand doesn’t drown you. The only things left in the night

aren’t just the monsters you cage within, but the monsters outside.”

The man turned, quickly grabbed Lorian by his cloak and thrust him off the platform. As he did so Lorian

caught the last few words he ushered.

“And make no mistake Lorian, there are plenty of monsters.”

Lorian plummeted, he didn’t have the strength to scream, his body wouldn’t allow it anyway. His survival 

instincts urging him to protect his lungs from the searing heat and protect his body from the furnace below. 

He braced himself, as his body and mind both crashed into darkness.

Lorian fell for a while, he tried his best to reorient himself in the air to position himself into landing as best he 

could to avoid injury, he needed every advantage he could get before he even considered a plan to get out of this 

situation entirely. Fortunately, the ground was sand, the platform above had shielded the sand from the sun for 

the morning and would therefore be relatively cool to stand on. Lorian plummeted, his heel caught the sand as 

he immediately formed himself into a roll, propelling himself with his gained momentum into the dunes. 

Halfway through he went off axis as his shoulder collided with the sand and cascaded him crashing onto his 

back. Fortunately, at this point he was slow enough to not sustain any injuries, albeit for the throbbing pain on 

his shoulder. 

After quickly rising to his feet, Lorian spotted his sword buried within the sand ahead, he quickly 

retrieved it, fortunately the handle was wrapped in rope, the steel rusted blade catching the sun blinded him 

briefly, it must’ve come loose from its scabbard in the fall. Lorian quickly spotted the scabbard laying nearby 

and sheathed his sword within, it was wooden so he was sure he’d find a more suitable use for it later, he 

couldn’t imagine he’d care much for safety or the preservation of an already rusted blade while he was 

traversing this glass wasteland. He quickly glanced above, the platform was much higher than he had expected 

and the rocky outcrop from which it rested upon wasn’t suitable for climbing.

“The only way is up huh? – I wish that were true.”

He chucked slightly to himself before fastening his sword to his hip again. Tightening the leather strap across 

his waist, he didn’t want to drop it again.

“Well, I guess I better get a move on while the sun is low, can’t imagine I’ll fair too well in the scorching heat.”

Lorian wrapped himself up as warmly as he could muster, the Anuit were kind enough to let him know where he 

was headed a few days prior, so he’d gotten himself some woolen clothing to keep warm in the icy nights, they 

didn’t afford him much, but he appreciated them allowing him to keep his clothes. After finishing his 

preparations, which were few, he set off westward, toward the setting sun.

Lorian continued walking through most of the night, his supplies were low so he had used his skills from his 

military training as much as he could. He came across some of the cacti present in this desert, using a knife to 

retrieve as much of the gooey guts he could, he’d brought along a separate container for this which he’d 

attached to the leather strap underneath his shirt to shield it from the sun where possible. After obtaining the 

means for water purification, he needed water. Various pieces of knowledge Lorian had learnt from time in the 

military kept repeating in his mind as he walked.

“Whether challenged with wind and rain, 

Strongest obstacle is natures vein

Sometimes forged in fire or snow

The liquid life flows down below”

It was a silly epigram he’d made up while on his marches, Lanstar always taught him that the easiest way to 

remember something is to put it in song, this song was what he was currently searching for. He continued 

forwards, eying the horizon for any visible rocky outcrop that was preferably non-porous, still in tact and 

retained some rainwater from when it last rained two moons back, surely that wasn’t too much to ask for.

As the night continued and Lorian had come to find himself more exhausted than he realised, he began 

to feel dizzy, he tried to stabilise himself until he caught his ankle while walking, causing him to crash into the 

sand below. Looking ahead he could no longer see the sun, it had hidden itself from sight beneath the horizon,

the night had shrouded him for what seemed like hours. In the brief moments he layed there, his thoughts also 

began to delve into that darkness, whispers of giving up, laying still, and letting the sand take him, following his 

wife into the eternity that awaited everyone, it was so close, what was the point of pushing himself further, his 

mind wanted rest and so did his body, he’d done enough, he been enough. As his mind began to slow alongside 

his heart and his will, he thought back to his wife Clara. He’d spoken to her through many nights in their 

marches, he lay with her amongst the stars and drifted with her through an ocean of happiness. He remembered 

back to that night when he saw the Anuit lieutenant conversing with creatures he’d heard of in fairy tales, 

metallic constructs of enormity, clawed appendages and curved, distorted bodies of steel. The face the leuitenant 

wore as he ripped apart members of Lorians platoon, speaking of greater purpose and his burden of truth. He 

remembered the night he slit the throat of that lieutenant and telling his wife of his deed. She smiled at him then, 

he never understood why, he’d prepared himself for admonishment, abandonment… rejection. Clara had only 

showed Lorian a higher love than he’d ever earned, more compassion that he could reflect and had never left 

him even as she passed.

He could hear her whispers now as he lay there, urging him to stand, to move forward, he remembered 

the conversation they had after Lorian had been condemned to the land of the dead, as she calmly took her seat 

next to him within the crooked, rotten cart. Looking as if it were the most natural of all actions to take, as she 

clasped his hand and hid away all his fears. He remembered the words he always needed in these moments when 

he felt his lowest.

‘We have always been living alongside death my love, but too afraid to look it in the eyes, Death never 

complained because it wasn’t interested in games, it believes it will beat you in the end. But while you have 

strength, no matter the rules or the cards the opponent has against you, you must keep playing, so at your end 

you can look Death straight in the eyes and proudly proclaim, it may be taking you to whatever lies ahead, but 

you’re proud of what you’re leaving behind, you found the greater courage to live, until you were ready to die.

So, you can look at your old friend and say I won, and you don’t get a rematch.”

He thought back to her eyes as she laid dying, there was no sadness, just a look of clarity, determination. Urging 

him to stand even when he desperately wanted not to, Lorian got back to his feet and continued, he need not cry,

he wouldn’t nourish the earth with his grief, he opened up his leather container that had been handed to him 

before his fall into his desert tomb, of which he was most certainly going to escape, or make his place of rebirth.

He clasped the neck of the leathery skin as he sipped the liquid life within. Upon tightening the cap and placing it back onto his belt, he noticed a shadowy spectre in the distance, too far to see more than an outline but close enough to hear, the noise emanating from that figure was somewhat haunting, but Lorian could have mistaken it as the scrape of steel against rock, had it not been accompanied with a row of serrated teeth sharper than the rusted weapon fastened to his waist.

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Note: Formatting seems a bit weird, I'm rusty in transferring from a pdf to the website so I hope it's still legible!

I have written plenty more but this is a gauge on interest!