NationStates Jolt Archive

Desert Eternal

“Where did you find this,” the gnarled shop keep murmured as he looked over the small smooth object in his hand. It was strange, neither metal nor flesh. One might claim that it was plastic but that had yet to grace this world.

“I found it...” his voice trailed off.

The keep looked up with interest and distrust. He was no fool.

The man continued, “I found it... where the sand floats.” The man looked down at his feet, nervous.

The keep let out a hearty laugh, “That place my friend, is a legend.”

The man responded quickly, “A legend, to those who have never been there.”

The keep merely continued to laugh, “And what of the stories of the tower to heaven, are they true?”

“Yes”

This was met with a solid stare, “Who are you?”

“Solinus Severian, let me tell you my story.”

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The earth was cracked, shattered. Centuries of an unforgiving sun had decimated this once lush environment, boiling the life blood of the world, water, away. Forests could only be found near the two poles, the rest of the world was a nigh impregnable desert. It stretched from horizon to horizon and horizon after that. No one knew why it happened, the scientists of the time, however primitive, were baffled. It was as if the star above them had grown tired of them and sought to burn them away from existence.

That however is simply a painted picture, but pictures are boring static. Let me add some life.

A single truck pushed its way through the desert sands. One of the first ever created here. Sand licked and choked the engine and thick black smoke shot high into the perfect blue sky, shying away from the massive unforgiving sun. The trucks tracks wound along the dunes for as far as the eye could see. That was their past.

They were among a sea of sand, a sea filled with great sinking ships. The sand was a golden yellow, deceptively inviting. From its great still waves shot up monoliths of a lost time. Cities engulfed. They were sailing among an infinite city drowned under sand, heat, and death.

Solinus was sitting at the back of the large transportation truck, writing in his journal.

Its humbling, these great dunes. I respect them as my elders, ancients that have seen a thousand ages. Then I remember the truth, they are not. A few short centuries ago this was lush, green. Then the great eye above us opened fuller than it had ever before and sundered the earth, seared the flesh. The sand is one hundred and forty degrees. The air is almost that. It is a wonder our race has survived. As I write I can smell the faint burning of rubber, the toasting of bread. We are making the great trek like no others have done, by automobile. Normally one will follow a dying river north as far as it takes them and then board Dune Bearers, animals native to the original deserts. We however have decided to put these constructs to the ultimate test, to travel the whole distance on land, on machine.

The truck hit a slight bump, causing Solinus to drop his lead. He fumbled for it a few instants on the floor and found it.

It is hell.

The break in his thoughts had stolen them from his mind. Solinus was an author, a privileged author. The people craved stories of desperation, as that was their lives. He had never been desperate. This was his chance to become... acquainted

He looked warily over the other travelers. Some seemed better than others.

OOC: Well since my intro rp is not going so well, I figured I would start a character one to have some fun. Feel free to post your character’s “introduction” here. No need for bulleted statistics, let the story shape who he/she is. This does not take place in the nation state reality. My nation is a massive empire that spans many realities and times. I only RP the smallest fraction of it with my “official” country. This however tells the story of another people in another reality who have brushed with the same enigmatic beings. I think this could be really good if we pull it off, so post please!

Mahk Hargraw sat in the truck and boiled.

The unforgiving heat of the sun had rendered his attempts to cool himself with drink useless; glass bottles lay all around him and rattled every time the machine went over a bump.

Mahk cursed every god whose name he could remember, silently. What he was doing in the middle of this infernal desert excaped him at the moment, though he expected it to come to him in a minute. Or it would if he could get some rest without the truck's constant spluttering waking him every ten seconds.

Mahk Hargraw had been trained at one point to sleep in any conditions - even open battle - but this training had deserted him long before. Luckily, he could still shoot, after a fashion. It kept him in clothes and with enough drink, and occasionally allowed him to repair his equipment. He wagered that this profession of his was something to do with the fact that he was in the middle of a desert without a team of Dune Bearers. He sighed and rubbed his beard.

Glancing around at his companions (or was he having double vision?), Mahk attempted to reconstruct the events of the night before. Or was it the week before? In this desert, the only things that indicated time's passing were day, night, and the steady drifting of the sand dunes.

As his reasons for being here struggled into his brain, as they did several times a day, he moaned and rummaged among the bottles, pulling out a small pistol, eventually followed by a small cloth.

First ensuring the pistol was unloaded - he wanted to keep his fingers, thank you very much - he began to rub the pistol rhymically, carefully, not missing a single speck of dust, until it shone almost as brightly as the source of all this heat in the cloudless sky above.

He put the gun and cloth into one of his jacket's many pockets, sighed, and stretched out on the floor.

OOC: I'm assuming we're at a 1920's-ish tech level?

OOC: Yep, its about that tech period, but not on earth.

He stared, blankly, at the never ending dunes of sand that surrounded him. Authors, painters, and dreamers had painted the lands as a surreal landscape of purity, happiness, and solidity. The had been driven mad by the land. Or by some force, some strange thing in the center of the desert, a power beyond all meaning...

Arjenar shook his head in a small movement. It was no use, thinking. Out here, you had to be alert, be ready, be prepared. Glancing around, he saw sunken eyes, bloated faces, wearied bodies, and broken hopes. He was easily the strongest of them, or so he seemed. He had not changed at all, his face still an imperturnable maze of mystery.

Arjenar had complete control over his body. His mind moved every step for him, every hot wind he dismissed as illusion, every cold night, as a dream. He had stayed in a corner of the truck the entire voyage, a black cloack wrapped aroung him, revealing nothing and showing nothing to reveal.

His hooded eyes glanced over the writing of the man next to him. The man was an author, by the way he held his lead, the way he seemed at ease with a journal. Arjenar could have laughed. The nonsense in the others journal was useless babble. Laughing would be nice here, to laugh on a crazed journey. It would be a welcome distraction, a path out of this pallor of gloom that hung over the party.

But Arjenar, true the man he was and the man he had become, did not. He instead looked around once more, observing a man rummaging through bottles to find a gun. What would a man do with a gun here? No one knew what Arjenar had hidden in his cloak, but most would be sure that there was something there. Arjenar knew that there was no gun there.

He lowered his head again, closing his eyes. When he had returned, he could claim that he had been to Hell's furnace and returned. If he returned.

A little bump so some other people can join. I feel two or three more would work best, but lets play it by ear.

Bump for others to see

OOC: Is a Lycan-type character ok(like Vncent from FF7)?

Valentine wandered the depths of the desert, there were no threats to him out here, and that meant that others were safe from his Changes here, he would be a threat to no one, and maybe he could find peace in this forsaken waste.

Riven Ward shifted as the truck gave a heavy jolt, recoling from yet another bump. He was out of his element in these harsh sands, far from the dense forests and lakes of his homeland. Ward hated the intense heat, the gritty feel of sand beneath his feet, and even the truck itself. Still, even this was better that the fate that lay back at his home.

Ward seemed almost the complete opposite from the black-clad man who sat opposite him. He was dressed in a pure white that seemed unfit for the desert. His knee-high boots and white jacket were a bit dirty, true, but his cape and face mask were still relatively clean. Ward was somewhat proud that he had kept his gloves in such pristine condition. Vials of oddly-colored liquids were fastened tightly to his belt, and a strangely-shaped quicksilver staff was gripped in his hand.

Ward's mask covered the whole of his head, leaving only his unusual death-black eyes to be seen. Most assumed Ward a victim of heat blindness or sunstroke, but his condition was natural from the time of his birth. It was a major advantage in confrontions, however. Even many criminals would hesitate to strike a blind man, giving Ward the advantage of a first strike. That first strike was all that Ward ever needed. Although he did not have his sight, years of training his other four sense had let him develop another, more advanced sense-one that could feel the very emotions and feelings of the others around him.

Ward siged heavily and sipped water from a small canteen, then put his head back and closed his eyes. He temporarily continued to wonder where exactley he was going, but gave up trying to think about it as tiredness began to overtake him.

The heat of the sun licked at the tarmac over the back of the truck. Let me rephrase that, the heat assaulted with a fury no mortal could match. The heat of the place can no be stressed enough. Imagine the hottest place you have ever been. This desert is almost certainly far hotter than that. Not only that, but the sun was sadistically bright. It could burn a manes cornea out within minutes of gazing on its continence. One would feel safer looking at God, however, to these people the sun was God.

Solinus sat there, hands folded, looking over his companions. What secrets did they hold. His eyes fell on a blind man, a spot of pity crossed his heart. Now there is a man who could write a story. Solinus had the idea that suffering was needed to write a good tale so worked up in him that many of his fellow aspiring had grown disgusted with him. A fact he, himself, never became aware of.

He returned to writing.

I feel I must continue with the theme of humility. As the dunes humble me, so do my companions. Many of them seem more than just human. Mysterious enigmatic figures one would find in fairytales and epic songs of days long past. This, however, is reality. These men and woman are real. I am in an epic story, and I plan to detail every moment of it. The air has cooled a bit, for night is coming. Even with night’s arrival the sand continues to burn. Never is there a moment spent without heat.

The truck crested yet another dune and the journey continued.

OOC: This is still open, but I wanted to write a little. Everyone's character is fine so far, no need to worry. I am very happy this is getting off the ground.

The truck crested a nearby dune, and Valentine took note, the Beast within him hungered, it knew that the truck meant there would be people, and people were just food to its mind.

Bump for others

Edit: Mini I sent you a TG

Bump

Bump for others to join

Bump for others to join. I think only one more bump before we start with this, even though not many peolple are in it.

Bump for others to join. I think only one more bump before we start with this, even though not many peolple are in it.

I was wondering if this would ever get started. I'm anxious to use Vincent for something.

*cough*

Edward was an old man, far past his prime, his beard was long and grey, although his eyes still shone brightly with the light of a curious young child. His back was sore, aged does that to old men makes them hurt where they once didn't, the ride didn't help his condition either.

Reaching for his canteen with a shaking hand to qwell his thristy soul. his memory like much of his body wasn't as good as it used to be the events preceding the ride were fuzzy and vague, not like those memories of his youth which were still quite vivid and clear. a man no matter how old never forgets his first kiss, his first love, and his first child.

Water, possibly perhaps the greatest thing god had ever created was now a rare thing it seemed, both a begger and rich man lusted for it in this dreadful heat. Edward took another sip savouring the taste before capping it and setting it aside for later, it felt uncomfortable to be so quiet, especially with fellow travellers.

He attempted to quietly clear his throat, failing miserably in the process. His voice was raspy and quiet, he was quite sure he had already told them one of his tales of the adventures of his youth. "have I told you gentlement about the time I..."

Windless. Arid. Fucking hot. Whatever description he chose for this blistering excuse for a planet would be correct. His booted feet where heavy, probably since he'd been walking for the past seven hours. The scaly feet within, three-toed & flat like that of a lizard, didn't help matters.

Kev Talvek was an Argonian, a lizard-man to those who lacked a better description of him. His vehicle had crapped out several miles back, an old dirtbike that had seen better days when it had been with the guy who'd owned it before him. When he'd bought it, it was simply a piece of shit.

Dressed for the conditions in a pair of padded work pants & jacket matted with dust, he stayed reasonably cool. The thin, hooded cloak over his shoulders & scaly head kept the sun off his back. If you asked him what he did for a living, he'd tell you he was a mechanic, but the Berretta in his belt with the worn handgrips suggests otherwise. His knuckles bear the scars of overuse as striking tools, not the cracked scales & raw joints of his expressed profession.

Something glimmered in the distance, visible from behind the tinted goggles that covered his yellow, slit-pupiled eyes. One of his canteens was empty, the other half-full. He'd resloved to keep walking until he passed out from heat stroke & dehydration, or until he found something better than having his scaly corpse picked over by whatever scavengers this god-forsaken wasteland produced after sundown. With a snort of dismay he took off at a run on an intercept course for whatever had reflected the sunlight his way.

Maybe God hadn't forsaken this place after all...