Spirits of the Desert » Places

         Paskal's latest dream seemed to grow ever more foreboding the more he thought about it. And, squatting beside coarse bushes in hope of finding berries, there was little else to do but think about it. The mysterious Sleipnir, patron spirit of the tribe, and what it had said... about being "one of five". Paskal guessed it was referring to the five tribes, but what it then said about a "spirit oasis" left him clueless. Well, he couldn't really expect it to make sense; it was just a stupid dream, after all. If it hadn't been so vivid, he would already have forgotten about it.

Standing back up, Paskal tested the weight of his pouch. Fairly heavy. There was still room for more, but he was sick of scrounging for berries. He could set a few animal traps to add a bit of variety - if, he suddenly remembered, he hadn't left all the equipment back at the camp.  He sighed, turning on his heel and beginning the trek back.

Maybe it was just his imagination, but he was starting to feel a little bit on edge. There had been talk from the rangers and traders about strange creatures on the desert plains. Savage creatures. As a forager, Paskal was not unaccustomed to odd sights, but he had never seen such nightmarish beings as the wide-eyed men described. He shook his head fierecely. Keep your mind down to earth, now.

As he approached the camp once again, he turned away from the main entranceway and skirted around until he found a gap between the huts and hovels. He shimmied through, keeping in the shade with his head lowered. He slipped back into his own tent without a sound, and a quick glance told him that his brother and housemate had already left for work. Good; that would mean no arguing this morning. It never occurred to Paskal that he had unknowingly structured his life around avoiding other people. 

He stooped to pick up the necessities that he had forgotten in his rush to leave earlier: a coil of donkey-hair rope, a pair of nearly curved bone knives, a larger bag with a bundle of cloths and junk already inside, and a minuscule vial of red-tailed scorpion venom - "just in case", as he kept telling himself. Idly scooping his equipment into the bag, Paskal let his mind wander back to his dream. The Sleipnir had acted very... well, calm around him. Almost as if it knew how he would act in advance. But how would it know that? It would have to have been watching him for all of his life. Patron spirits were supposed to do that, of course, but Paskal found the implication worrying. The Sleipnir would have to be very intrusive.

You have no idea.

The bag dropped from his hand, thumping onto the floor as Paskal whirled around. Nothing was in the tent with him. Nothing could have spoken to him. Gritting his teeth, he stood up straight and willed his heartbeat to slow down. After a minute or so, he snatched the bag back up off the floor and stormed out. 

The traps he set were going to be especially vicious today.