The Calm before the Storm

Prologue

The coarse sand of Gweatara had its way of chafing through anything. No matter how tough your boots are, or how callused your feet become, it will always find a way to cut through. Gweataran sand is nothing, if not determined. That isn't the worst part, though. The worst part is the searing heat; doggedly persistent throughout the barren region, from the Scorched Sands to the Ash Mountains. That same relentless heat is absorbed by the sand, and seems to boil the blood whenever the two come into contact. The sand and the heat are so notorious in fact, they even have a story of their own. Legend told of an epic warrior, who once wielded an undulating glass blade forged from the Gweataran sand, shimmering in that same blood red hue. It was believed to have been so sharp that it could penetrate the fabric of reality, and set flesh and stone alight from the slightest of touches. However, no sword like it had existed in living memory. In the legend, the blade had been forged using the heat of a dying star. Nothing since had been able to replicate such tremendous heat, and thus the sands of Gweatara had remained painful, plentiful, and relatively useless. Still, the tale only added to the extensive Gweataran culture and mythology, but no story could dwarf that of the Ashen Princess and her lonely mountain. But they were stories, and none of that really mattered right now. Not the culture; the mythology; the sand; the heat. None of it. The only thing that seemed to exist in the entirety of Thenroa at that precise moment in time was the jackrabbit.

The encampment must have been ten feet across at the most. Several sweat-stained cloaks made up a makeshift mattress across the floor of a tight crevice in the rock, roughly hewn by both time and the swirling sands of Gweatara; it was the only nearby shelter from the freezing winds that swept across the Stitches at night. Out on a rocky outcrop, a small fire sputtered and sparked into life, wheezing and gasping for oxygen like a dying asthmatic. Dark wisps of smoke danced into the air from the dry wood, filling it with the scents of salt and meat. Audun salivated as the spit turned; cooking the jackrabbit in an agonisingly slow manner. It was as if the fire knew that time was short and didn’t seem to care, as the flames tentatively licked at the carcass above it. It had been two days since his last proper meal. Or was it three? The jackrabbit hadn't even been skinned thoroughly; small tufts of fur were catching alight and charring the soft flesh beneath. He didn't care. It could have been the most disgusting thing he'd ever witnessed, but his hunger needed sating. Watching the spit spin was a temptation he couldn't stomach any longer. Audun's hands shout out in front of him like a viper going in for the kill. He ripped the morsel off the spit, burning his hands in the process, but that was a minor setback at most. He sunk his teeth into the raw flesh, blood welling between his teeth and congealing on his tongue in a thin, greasy layer. He took another bite and swallowed with a carnal satisfaction. Before the food could settle and start to slightly assuage his hunger, another hand shot out, even faster than Audun's had when he'd grabbed his tantalising prize.

The world slowly began to reform around him, but this time the blood on his tongue and between his teeth was his own. He touched his hand to his jaw and quickly retracted from the stinging pain. That's one way to remove your wisdom tooth. Audun bordered on the brink of tears from the pain but found he didn't have the strength to cry. He placed a finger delicately into his mouth and removed half of a shattered tooth matted with bloody fur. At least the pain had numbed the chilling bite of the wind, almost enough for Audun to forget it was even there. He was still hungry though. As he contemplated his situation, a face appeared over him, half concealed in a dusty cowl: stern, vexed, and unmistakable.

“I-Ivan…” he muttered through broken teeth, wincing with the effort. Audun felt a hand grab him around the back of his neck, before wrenching him into a sitting position. His gaze met Ivan’s for the briefest of moments, but that was still a moment too long. Audun's witty humour and charming charisma fled him there and then. Ivan spoke.