Snippet #2724865

The ceremony was not his to observe. Sekhemkare did not know their tongue, their clothes, their rites, or their faith. All he knew of their ritual was the letters inked onto the scales of the Suzerain. It was an old script, one he knew well. The Silfeod, the Riverwalkers, the Ashir-Er-Kahut. He knew their ancestors, savages digging in the silt for grubs, not yet masters of their own bodies. How he knew them, he did not know. Perhaps they were vassals to his people. Slaves, even. What he did know was that when he woke, they were not there, save for a few shattered remains, barely a shadow of what they were. There was but one family squatting on the riverside, starving and weak. The eldest elf, calling himself Manurha, lived to see his people fall. He taught Sekhemkare the ways of his kin, all the while weeping bitterly. Sekhemkare could offer no aid that would save them, and they perished in a heap. It was clear to him now, what the elder meant by the 'Flying Ocean'. Blue death, come to wash everything away.

Sekhemkare could not feel anger. He felt no pity for the elves, nor fury at their destruction. However, when his gaze swept over the dragon, he sensed it stirring. It was not his. It came with the memories, flashing across his vision. Burning clay, searing those trapped inside. A river turned red and thick with offal, boiling like rotted stew. A lamentation from below, answered with a roar growing ever closer... The Suzerain must not have known what the words meant, only seeing it scrawled on rooftops or torn from the throats of mothers. It was a plea for mercy. One that would never be answered.

Except, perhaps, for today. He was brought back by the orders of the Lady. The cloak would be the death of the ruler, if he could acquire it. How would be an issue. Sekhemkare had no illusions about his charisma. He looked like an outsider, a mage, someone you would expect to sit naked in the desert until he started seeing the face of God. Gods. He was never sure.

So, when the ceremony began to transition, Sekhemkare approached the servant who was becoming buried in a pile of discarded clothing. The man looked terrified, naturally, both from the sudden approach of the mystic and the fact that he was now responsible for the attire of the Suzerain himself. Sekhemkare watched him struggle out from under the impressive weight of the jeweled cloak, and Sekhemkare wondered if any of those jewels were taken from the earth. Knowing what he did of the scaled ones, likely not.

Wordlessly aiding the man in steadying himself, the desert shaman gripped his arm tightly, closing a trinket into his palm. The attendant attempted to look him in the eyes, but only found cloth wrappings dusted with sand. A word of protest formed on his lips, cut short by a slow shake of Sekhemkare's head.

"A gift for the king. A talisman of ages lost. Fixed to a cloak, a ward against the march of time and armies alike. Fixed wrong, a beacon for things far worse."

The mystic saw the attendants face drain, but felt a sense of respect when he saw the poor man nod. This man was loyal. What it would get him would to be praise. He continued, kneeling the attendant by the cloak.

"You are trusted, Keeper of Cloth. Will you be the one to give your king this boon? Or shall I?"

The servant looked at Sekhemkare, the cloak, and finally at the talisman. It was a small copper beetle, nothing fit for a ruler. He scoffed silently, about to admonish the petulant wizard who dare to foist a bauble onto the Suzerain and call it magic, until it fluttered it's wings. Glass, milky from age, veined with gold. A bit of sand fell from it, swirling under it's own power on the ground before lying still. The servant blinked and quietly handed the talisman to Sekhemkare, who motioned him away from the cloak. He knelt over it, holding the beetle in his palm. His ancestors saw fit to bury him with it, whatever the meaning was. Perhaps he had just given it a new one?

Sekhemkare remained turned away from the ceremony. He could hear it, and that was enough. He had no interest in the matters of flesh. His mind reached out to the Lady as the beetle crawled into a fold of his clothes and emerged back into his neck, becoming inert once more.

The cloak is mine. The key is yours to use. The lock is ready. The door beckons. Hear it on the wind, the stirring of the sand. The desert seeks action. It calls for you by name. Feed it and be one with all it offers.