[DISCONTINUED UFN] BENEATH SANDS OF BLOOD ⟶ THE MUMMY 1999/2017

𝐯𝐢𝐢 ⟶ . . .𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐡𝐚𝐧

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"There has never been a Florence in our family."

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THE SAHARA
1926

║ FLORENCE ║

"GOOD MORNING, MY FRIEND." The thick Hungarian accent of Beni greeted the weary travelers. The heat of the desert shimmered like a mirage over its sands. Florence had always found that strangely beautiful. As each party's camels rode forward, her eyes locked onto the thief coming towards her, and she studied the man. Long and lean, he seemed to fit right into the desert landscape, but there was something about him she didn't like.

She knew he was a thief from what little Rick had practically spat about him, and she didn't like thieves. They were self-serving and the one thing you could always count on them to do was backstab you.

Above the travelers, the desert resembled an oil painting of colors. Chock-full of red, and certainly foreboding, as though the desert itself begged them to turn back and leave the creature of horror stories alone. Or perhaps it drove them onwards, the blood-red of the skies above a gleeful prophecy of what was to come. Florence had seen similar paintings in museums before, but they could never quite capture how alive the desert was. The desert was like an animal - an ancient, sadistic animal.

She could feel the American explorers' gazes on her. What an interesting bunch they were too. Florence leveled her gaze at the man in the middle, golden eyes studying him until she could sense his mind. A shame she could not read it, though. His intentions seemed to align with her own sibling's, interestingly enough. Both he and Evie wanted to study the city for archaeological purposes, not for personal gain. A far different intention than his companions had, however. They lusted for gold, the sort of gold they believed lied buried in the sands of Hamunaptra. They were correct, but there was a very good reason that it had not been stolen yet.

Her gaze flicked to Beni, but he was harder to read. If only she could read minds. But as Florence shifted in her saddle to ease the discomfort of it, she knew she would be able to regain her full powers soon. Her magic was weakened for right now. Partly due to her exile so long ago. These modern-day archaeologists didn't believe in magic, but they didn't have any idea of the true consequences of what exile from Egypt meant. In the olden days, exile was quite literally a death sentence. Scorpions and snakes were nothing to be feared when one had been cut off from their life source, from the magic that flowed through Egypt and sustained its people. 

But how could they know? 

Egypt's magic had waned as its belief in the Ancient Gods gave way to modern religions, but it was still in the desert sands, waiting to be summoned again. She could practically feel it humming beneath her, reaching out to connect with the magic running through her own veins. Magic was not inherently good or bad. It did not recognize intent, only strength, and it yearned to be connected with the magic inside her. 

Soon.

But her exile had been cursed by the sorcerers of her time, and to her greatest anger, she had found she could not find Hamunaptra on her own. And so that was when Set had told her what she must do to ever see her family again. Wait, was his bidding, and let the right mortals do it for you. He had given her what she needed, told her who to seek out and join with before their journey to here. They will need a whisper in their minds, he urged. Tell them how to serve you.

And so it began.

"ʽnḫ."*

The sands began to move. Her own voice had sounded almost feral, guttural, to her, as it called upon the ancient power of the desert. The desert heeded her call, stirring around them, but no one noticed, entranced by the vision before them. Florence slid down from her camel, bare feet meeting the burning sands. It had been far too long she had spent in the dreary streets of Cairo and London, searching for the mortals that would lead her to what she sought. She still needed one final act of service from them, but Florence didn't care who performed the ritual, as long as it was performed.