Austar Union
23-09-2005, 02:47
Deserts Among Deserts
The Sultanate of Kyzl-Arabia
"Ride," barked Ozma Izmalla, his orders in an Arabic tongue. "Get far from here, I will call you when I need you."
His servant, also dressed in what made up of an ethnic traditional mix, nodded and waved goodbye in a fashion expected of him. He turned his beast in the meantime, and rode the camel far, far over the dune; much further into the distance from here. Now alone, Ozma was free to his own demise. He could thirst for water, and nobody could hear him cry. He could be brutally murdered, and nobody would hear the crackling of his bones. And he could simply be left alone, and nobody could hear the silence. On the otherhand, what did come was the impounding blades of a chopper, its black form having snuck in under the radar of this fair nation. Unmarked, he had little way of telling where, and whom it belonged to. One man in the meantime, left the chopper's frame and headed toward him--masking his face with a cover which would render him unrecognizable to Ozma, and protected from the dusted winds which were being kicked up by such powerful engines.
Offering his hand, the man remained rather un-named. Instead, he offered to speak in Ozma's own language. Something which came rare from those outside of his own town; in the middle of nowhere.
"I assume, you are Ozma?" greeted the man, taking Ozma's hand firmly. "Lets go for a ride..."
Unsure of what which was to come, Ozma reluctantly folllowed back into the chopper itself, whereby it took flight once again--still unbenown to the Sultanate itself.
"I have much to inform you," he explained, the craft's noise mostly being blocked onto the outside. "And since this will be quite the operation..." He allowed his voice to trail into the distance.
Ozma spoke for the first time; "Tell me what there is to know," he requested. "This is for my children, for my family. It is only unfortunate that we must break the reigns of poverty... this way."
"Indeed," replied the man, looking out the window. He turned back to Ozma. "But you must understand why you have to keep this a secret?"
Ozma nodded, "I am committed... uh..."; He paused, not knowing what to call him.
The man smiled from the corner of his mouth, "My name, and where I'm from is unimportant. My sources, this helicoptor; its all unimportant. You can only be assured that we have things well in control."
"I understand," grimaced Ozma. It was difficult; committing one's life to a cause which was beyond him, and only for the "promise" of millions upon millions of Riyal. Assassination was a dangerous business, and one with more than just a few risks. Either way, he would be dead by the end of it... and if he was successful, at the very least his family would be catered for. From what he knew, these men were of a reputable source. Of where he knew them from was unknown. They had contacted him, arranged the meeting, proposed the deal. He only had to sign on the dotted line, except there was no bit of paper to sign--it was but several incredible promises. Your service and your death, for the catering of your family. Strong requests, for strong and convincing benefits. Not enough for many, but enough for a man like him.
Later...
The Sultanate of Kyzl-Arabia
It had been some time since the "meeting", and contact up until now had been minimal at best. Keeping it so, apparently kept security to a high. Being a normal man, he didnt understand so much of it all--but he knew relatively well not to ask questions, where they werent welcome. Such was dangerous, not just for his "contractors", but also for himself and his family. In the meantime, for the past few weeks he had been training. Living on a farm certainly helped, and although not rich he certainly had acres upon acres of land for which to disappear into the unknown. Furthermore, he had kept his promise to the unknown gentleman; nobody was any of the wiser. In fact, he had even invented a good reason as to why he would be applying today, for the "cheap labor" program--particularly within either Menelmacar, or Ctan itself.
Arriving at the relevant building and desks / market stands, he enquired with the gentleman there. "Brother," he opened, a little nervous. "I have reached a great decision, and I need some information."
The man looked up from what he was doing, and smiled at Ozma upon recognition; "Ozma! What is it you are doing? I havent seen you for some time."
Ozma took his brother in fellowship, and hugged him close, "I have come here on business, actually."
His brother nodded, his face remaining blank until he realized, "Oh, you want to sign yourself up? To work in Menelmacar?"
"Or Ctan," Ozma corrected. "Only for a few years, then, I have plans to come hope. The farm has been... suffering. This drought has done little for crops, and I cannot sustain my family on such a lower income."
His brother frowned, "But you should have said so, I can lend you some money."
"No." Ozma interjected. "I would rather do it this way, it is my duty afterall."
Nodding with a chuckle, Ozma's brother pulled open a drawer in his workdesk; "You have always been a sticky one. Here, take this form... fill it in, and hand it to me. I'll put my own personal recommendation on it even."
Ozma took the form, "Will it be accepted?"
"Perhaps," frowned his brother. "Fill in the form, and they will make their own decision. From there, perhaps even after a few months, I will call you to let you know."
Ozma smiled, and took a pen with thanks, "Thankyou brother. You are more than family to me, and I will remember your deeds forever. Praise Allah."
The Sultanate of Kyzl-Arabia
"Ride," barked Ozma Izmalla, his orders in an Arabic tongue. "Get far from here, I will call you when I need you."
His servant, also dressed in what made up of an ethnic traditional mix, nodded and waved goodbye in a fashion expected of him. He turned his beast in the meantime, and rode the camel far, far over the dune; much further into the distance from here. Now alone, Ozma was free to his own demise. He could thirst for water, and nobody could hear him cry. He could be brutally murdered, and nobody would hear the crackling of his bones. And he could simply be left alone, and nobody could hear the silence. On the otherhand, what did come was the impounding blades of a chopper, its black form having snuck in under the radar of this fair nation. Unmarked, he had little way of telling where, and whom it belonged to. One man in the meantime, left the chopper's frame and headed toward him--masking his face with a cover which would render him unrecognizable to Ozma, and protected from the dusted winds which were being kicked up by such powerful engines.
Offering his hand, the man remained rather un-named. Instead, he offered to speak in Ozma's own language. Something which came rare from those outside of his own town; in the middle of nowhere.
"I assume, you are Ozma?" greeted the man, taking Ozma's hand firmly. "Lets go for a ride..."
Unsure of what which was to come, Ozma reluctantly folllowed back into the chopper itself, whereby it took flight once again--still unbenown to the Sultanate itself.
"I have much to inform you," he explained, the craft's noise mostly being blocked onto the outside. "And since this will be quite the operation..." He allowed his voice to trail into the distance.
Ozma spoke for the first time; "Tell me what there is to know," he requested. "This is for my children, for my family. It is only unfortunate that we must break the reigns of poverty... this way."
"Indeed," replied the man, looking out the window. He turned back to Ozma. "But you must understand why you have to keep this a secret?"
Ozma nodded, "I am committed... uh..."; He paused, not knowing what to call him.
The man smiled from the corner of his mouth, "My name, and where I'm from is unimportant. My sources, this helicoptor; its all unimportant. You can only be assured that we have things well in control."
"I understand," grimaced Ozma. It was difficult; committing one's life to a cause which was beyond him, and only for the "promise" of millions upon millions of Riyal. Assassination was a dangerous business, and one with more than just a few risks. Either way, he would be dead by the end of it... and if he was successful, at the very least his family would be catered for. From what he knew, these men were of a reputable source. Of where he knew them from was unknown. They had contacted him, arranged the meeting, proposed the deal. He only had to sign on the dotted line, except there was no bit of paper to sign--it was but several incredible promises. Your service and your death, for the catering of your family. Strong requests, for strong and convincing benefits. Not enough for many, but enough for a man like him.
Later...
The Sultanate of Kyzl-Arabia
It had been some time since the "meeting", and contact up until now had been minimal at best. Keeping it so, apparently kept security to a high. Being a normal man, he didnt understand so much of it all--but he knew relatively well not to ask questions, where they werent welcome. Such was dangerous, not just for his "contractors", but also for himself and his family. In the meantime, for the past few weeks he had been training. Living on a farm certainly helped, and although not rich he certainly had acres upon acres of land for which to disappear into the unknown. Furthermore, he had kept his promise to the unknown gentleman; nobody was any of the wiser. In fact, he had even invented a good reason as to why he would be applying today, for the "cheap labor" program--particularly within either Menelmacar, or Ctan itself.
Arriving at the relevant building and desks / market stands, he enquired with the gentleman there. "Brother," he opened, a little nervous. "I have reached a great decision, and I need some information."
The man looked up from what he was doing, and smiled at Ozma upon recognition; "Ozma! What is it you are doing? I havent seen you for some time."
Ozma took his brother in fellowship, and hugged him close, "I have come here on business, actually."
His brother nodded, his face remaining blank until he realized, "Oh, you want to sign yourself up? To work in Menelmacar?"
"Or Ctan," Ozma corrected. "Only for a few years, then, I have plans to come hope. The farm has been... suffering. This drought has done little for crops, and I cannot sustain my family on such a lower income."
His brother frowned, "But you should have said so, I can lend you some money."
"No." Ozma interjected. "I would rather do it this way, it is my duty afterall."
Nodding with a chuckle, Ozma's brother pulled open a drawer in his workdesk; "You have always been a sticky one. Here, take this form... fill it in, and hand it to me. I'll put my own personal recommendation on it even."
Ozma took the form, "Will it be accepted?"
"Perhaps," frowned his brother. "Fill in the form, and they will make their own decision. From there, perhaps even after a few months, I will call you to let you know."
Ozma smiled, and took a pen with thanks, "Thankyou brother. You are more than family to me, and I will remember your deeds forever. Praise Allah."