Snippet #2724952

Sekhemkare faced the dragon, still kneeling on top the cloak. His head was bowed, his arms spread in offering. It was not in submission, but concentration. The massive ego of the scaled one would likely keep him blind to this, however. Few kings expected the slave to strike.

"Al-Khasa. Its memory but sand, as are its people. I do not have the words to tell you of it, but I shall do what I can. This tale is one that must be told. Allow this, for it is the way of my people. Only knowledge and strength will come from it."

Arcane words drifted in his mind, once scrawled onto caves and chiseled in tablets. He needed more time. The desert was not one to give itself willingly. It had to be coaxed, shaped, and this tale would allow it. The desert listened to all stories, ate them, made them. It was listening to him now, he could feel it.

"Near my home, there was a mountain. Red, taller than any. I do not remember much of the time before, but this mountain I do. It hid armies, gave us shade, let us build our towers and temples, gave us all that we needed. We called it Teshem-Hin-Nursha, Father Of All Red Stone."

He slowly ran a hand along his neck, talismans swaying gently. The winds were stronger, now. There was a heat to them.

"I was buried under that mountain. A tomb of rock and gold. I do not know the purpose of it, nor what I wear now. It was the way of my people, and it is lost. For how long I was among the dead, I cannot say. When I rose, it was in darkness. I walked below the sand for many ages, the great tunnels giving no passage, no escape."

Locusts flitted about him, issuing from him in a swarm. Some made from bronze and bone. A swirl of sand played at his knees. The wind was hot now.

"I did find a crack, deep in the tomb. I walked in the sun for the first time in my memory. But there was no mountain. There was only sand. Time had worn it away, like it does all things. I knew nothing of the living. I saw only death, heard only cries. Many have returned to the desert, but they do not find peace. They linger, trapped between every grain, every gust of wind. All they can do is call out, whispering things to men mad with thirst. Do you know who they speak of?"

The guards were getting nervous now. The wind was searing and howling with anger. Sand poured from Sekhemkare like a shattered hourglass, pooling on the stone.

"They speak of you, scaled one. The Suzerain. The Blind Wyrm. The Wurha-Il. The Hithirma. The Eastern Scourge. They speak of your strength. How you slaughter kingdoms with ease. Bring silence to the dunes. Defy the sands themselves. They know you, this wasteland of souls. They have watched you build your spires, gather your armies, settle your lands. They have been waiting, all this time, some as long as you claim to live, to find rest But, that will not be. You are a dragon, fierce and terrible. A force beyond peace..."

It came then, over the dunes. A sandstorm, roaring and boiling as it tore across the sand towards the palace. Shapes flickered across, forming and dissolving as it roiled. Faces, beasts, symbols, words, remnants of the dead and dying, swept up by the desert to seek out that which had caused it to feel so much pain. It set upon the a palace, and in the moment before it struck, there was silence. Sekhemkare raised his head, blind staring at the blind.

"So I will give them war."

It hit with the force of the Gods themselves, and soon the world was naught but boiling sand.