Saun 39th of Arc 700
Rokas wandered unseeing through the swirling sands and howling wind, following the call of the water.
Eyes pinched shut, he struggled against the raging winds, ignoring the sand clinging to his lashes. Clothes billowed, the fabric unable to resist the storming gusts. The air grabbed and clawed at them, pulling and twisting, sometimes with such force that Rokas feared they might be torn right off his body.
He fastened the shawl for the umpteenth time, winding its coils tighter around the lower half of his face. There hadn’t been a lot of give the last few times he’d checked –and there wasn’t now either—but it did not hurt to make sure. After all, the thin layers of cloth were his only barrier between his windpipe and the enormous, all-encompassing cloud of sand and dust he found himself in the middle of.
It was unfortunate he didn’t have any goggles on him to protect his eyes; he wouldn’t have had to worry about clenching the lids shut. Any lessening of the pressure was punished by sand somehow slipping underneath the folds of flesh, causing tears and irritation. Of course, Rokas had tried to wrap some fabric around his eyes like he had his mouth and nose, but the wind had snatched it out of his fumbling fingers immediately. Rokas’d rather not have the same happen to his mouth-cloth, so he hadn’t loosened it to cover his upper face also.
Most would call him mad for not seeking shelter during a sandstorm. Perhaps they were right. Rokas had ignored the earth when it spoke of nearby caverns, and again when it pointed out a hollowed out hole within a sandstone formation. It meant well, of course, but Rokas did not want to hide and cower. Not while Zaruid might still follow. He needed to put more distance between the himself and the old mage, though he very much doubted he could. Zaruid moved far quicker than his aged body allowed, letting the elements carry him.
However, in the few days he’d been on the run, Rokas hadn’t caught even a glimpse of the old man. Perhaps Zaruid had chosen not to follow. It made very little sense; Zaruid had gone through the trouble to create a storm to stop Rokas from fleeing back into the desert, yet chasing him when he pushed his way through was too much effort? Why had Zaruid kicked up the sandstorm in the first place?
None of it made any sense, and none of it mattered. Even if he wasn’t being followed, Rokas would soldier on. He didn’t see it as a hazard. It was an opportunity to cover some distance without fear of anyone catching up. Every sane person around would have sought shelter. They would have paused their pursuit of Rokas, if he was indeed being chased.
He switched his attention back to the water, seeking out its presence, listening for its voice over the bellowing winds. Air slammed into him like a hammer, its intensity no longer stifled. Rokas gritted his teeth and forced himself forward, hands gripping his cloak tight, keeping it wrapped around his torso, despite the efforts of the wind to tear it out of his grasp. He did his best to ignore it, focusing on the water’s call.
Though it echoed from far away, Rokas heard it loud and clear, rolling and crashing, swelling and breaking. Different from the usual tone he associated with water. Not as tranquil and languid as the pools in oases, not as bubbly as the underground springs. Rougher, temperamental, wild. It hinted at hidden dangers, lurking deep beneath its surface. At a capacity for extreme calm, but also tempestuous fury. From the sound Rokas could tell it was vast, a greater body of water than he had ever seen before, reaching his ears so easily.
Most importantly, it came from the west, as always, but no longer from right in front of Rokas. Apparently he had veered off course a bit. Not surprising considering the circumstances. Unable to open his eyes, Rokas had to rely on the voice of water to keep himself going in the right direction. Of course, even if he could see, the sandstorm made it impossible to navigate without a compass of any kind.
Rokas turned back westwards, fighting the sandstorm of a couple more paces so he was certain he went the right direction, then he turned his attention back on the wind. It became aware of his presence once more, immediately letting up on its assault. The sudden shift in resistance and force caused Rokas to stumble forward. His heart missed a beat, body unable to properly balance itself without vision. He fell on hands and knees, the wind not concerned in the slightest. Not even for a moment. Rokas frowned, then rose back to his feet and continued his trek.
He did not like tuning in to the air when it was being like this, even though its origin was natural, not magical. It wasn’t hard to tell. Zaruid’s sandstorm had been apologetic, unwilling to hurt Rokas, but it also didn’t want to disappoint Zaruid. The voices of both wind and earth couldn’t help but express conflicted feelings. In the end though, they did like Zaruid more –which was only natural, their relationship with Rokas had only just begun—and they fulfilled his request.
This storm was nothing like that. There was no conflict here, no mage stirring it up and asking it to hurt a new friend. No, this was the wind throwing a temper tantrum, and Rokas did not like listening to it. Feeling the agitation and frustration radiate from all around grated on his nerves, wearing down his mood. Yet to keep going he had to bear the continuous wails and cries of the air’s hissy fit, reminding it he was around. Else it would forget, restraining itself no longer when it battered him. Perhaps its way of demanding Rokas’s attention, needing a friend to vent to.
For some time he wandered, straining against the wind, and doing his best to shut out the swirl of emotions it perpetuated. Every so often Rokas stopped to listen to the call of water for a few moments, making sure he did not get lost. Eventually, exhaustion began to set in. Physical -- from fighting the continuous blasts of air and sand, mental – from stumbling around blindly with only the frustrated wails and screams as company, and magical – from constantly focusing on the elements and listening to their voices.
Surprisingly, the earth proved helpful rather than cranky from Rokas’s dismissal of its aid earlier. Perhaps it had forgotten, or maybe it realized he’d be more willing to call on it if it didn’t act stubborn every time its offered help was disregarded. Unfortunately, no suitable shelter could be found in the area, and just about every rock formation that would keep him out of the wind was too small to hide behind.
However, a small number of creatures had huddled up a short distance to Rokas’s right, weathering the storm. Creatures. Rokas only knew of two kinds that would sit in the midst of a sandstorm. Camels, who were more or less used to the desert’s weather patterns –and were hardy and resilient enough to endure them—and people. In particular, people with camels to hide behind. Rokas paused for a minute, orienting himself by way of the vague directions of the earth, and set course for the people. It would take him a little bit away from his goal, but this time it would be worth it.
After all, people meant supplies. Water, food, perhaps some blankets and a spare tent he could trade for. The waterskin at his hip was starting to be filled more with air than liquid, and he was fed up with eating dry biscuits for every meal. Especially when he had to ration his water.
Minutes passed, and Rokas still had not reached the spot where the group of people and beasts had holed up. He was going the right way though; according to the earth it was just a little further. Yet, as he ploughed through the raging wind, the minutes combined into half an hour. The earth still insisted Rokas was really close, so he kept going.
Another half an hour passed, then another hour. The storm was still going strong, refusing to let up. Rokas tuned in to the earth’s voice once more, severely doubting it’s honesty. He didn’t know whether or not the elements could lie, but at this point the possibility seemed undeniable. Are you absolutely certain I’m going the right way? The sand rustled as it whooshed past, tendrils gently caressing the exposed parts of his skin, subtly defying the flow of the air. Hm… If you say so… A question hung in the air for a moment, swept away like the rest of the sand a moment later. Uncertainty about the origin of Rokas's skepticism. We seem to have very different ideas as to what constitutes as 'close by'. The earth rose and fell on the wind, shrugging, then emphasized its earlier message. Shaking his head, Rokas forced himself back into motion, each stop more threatening to become permanent. He focused on his feet, placing one in front of the other, trying to ignore the steadily increasing weight of the limbs.
Despite the earth reassuring Rokas he was very, very, very close, it still took him upwards of fifteen minutes to finally stumble upon the gathered camels. He could sense them from the change in intensity of the air. It rushed to fill voids created by obstacles, though it didn’t quite manage to eliminate all of it. Eyes open and shielded from the storm with a hand, Rokas became aware of the row of camels kneeling in the sand waiting out the air's tantrum, fur puffed up by the wind. Behind two of them hid people --their silhouettes almost blending together with their beasts' -- but the others were unoccupied. Rokas plopped down against the soft, furry flank of the nearest beast, its odor strong and pungent. It promised safety and warmth, and Rokas surrendered to it immediately.
