Chronicles of Dras

Chapter 10: Into the Desert's Grasp

The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the Trex Desert as Commander Rhett began his briefing. The squads huddled together, their eyes fixed on the Commander, their minds racing with a mix of anticipation and apprehension.

"Alright, listen closely, my fine young warriors," Commander Rhett began, a charismatic grin spreading across his face. His voice, brimming with confidence and charm, echoed through the twilight. "Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is straightforward. You're to reach the oasis haven of Blad within seven sunsets."

He paused, his gaze scanning over the assembled cadets, a spark of mischief twinkling in his eyes. "Each of you gets a single water canteen and a meager handful of food, just to keep things interesting. You'll have to channel your inner hunters for the rest of your meals and, more importantly, water."

Commander Rhett leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a more sombre tone. "The desert, my friends, is not a playground. It's a predator, and it's out for blood. It's home to creatures that make the nightmares you had as a kid look like fluffy bunnies. Oh, and let's not forget our friendly neighbourhood bandits who'd be more than happy to help you part with your supplies, and possibly your lives."

He straightened up, resuming his typical swagger. "To ace these trials, every member of your squad needs to strut into Blad within the given timeframe. And here's the kicker: over half of the brave souls who dance this deadly tango with the desert don't live to tell the tale. We usually only see one or two squads pass."

Finishing his briefing, Rhett handed each squad a map that was as vague as a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. "Head southwest," he instructed, "and may Lady Luck have a soft spot for you."

Just as Rhett finished his speech, a hearty chuckle came from the side. "He makes it sound as if you're about to dance with a lass at a tavern, doesn't he?" Sergeant Keldorn roared, his thick accent adding a note of levity to the grave situation. "But I'll tell ye this, lads and lasses. The only dance partner you'll find in that desert is a venomous viper or a man-eating scarab! So, best step lively!"

As the last rays of the sun dipped below the horizon, Sergeant Keldorn and Commander Rhett departed, leaving the squads alone at the edge of the vast, unforgiving desert.

No sooner had Commander Rhett and Sergeant Keldorn left them to their fate than Joren, a noble with an inflated sense of entitlement, immediately assumed a position of leadership. "As a noble, it falls to me to lead," he declared, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The proclamation was met with a mix of reactions from the squad. Some looked at each other, unsure, while others showed signs of dissent. It was Alia, the usually quiet archer, who was the first to voice her disagreement.

"Being a noble doesn't automatically make you a leader, Joren," she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest. "Leadership is earned, not inherited."

This sparked a brief but heated exchange among the squad members. Arguments flared, with each voicing their own views on leadership. The squabble was just about to spiral out of control when Dras stepped in.

"Enough!" Dras interjected, his voice authoritative. "We're standing on the edge of the desert with a mission to complete. We have no time for petty disputes. Let Joren lead."

His intervention brought an immediate silence. The others exchanged glances, their expressions showing that they agreed, albeit grudgingly. Their focus shifted back to the task at hand, the looming trials casting a shadow over their minor squabbles.

With Joren leading the way, they turned their faces to the south. As they prepared to embark on their journey, they took a moment to regard the vast expanse of sand and stone stretching out before them. It was a sobering sight, a stark reminder of the trials that lay ahead. But, they were ready, united by a common goal and a shared resolve to succeed.