𝐲𝐮𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐧 ⁀➴ paul atreides

10 ⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ the hunter and the seeker

─── ･ ｡ﾟ⟡ 🌓 ⟡ ˚｡ ･ ───

ten

'The unexpected is usually what brings the unbelievable.'

─── ･ ｡ﾟ⟡ 🌓 ⟡ ˚｡ ･ ───

A lofty balcony overlooks Arrakeen, and Leto looks out through high-tech binoculars at two huge moons.

One is significantly larger, containing something of a handprint while the smaller moon remains off to the side, considerably smaller.

"The locals call the big one the Hand of God," Gurney explains at the Duke's side as he switches the lens to get a more broader perspective.

"Well, the Hand of God is wreaking havoc on our comms system," he replies, looking down at the distant building that puffs out smoke to show that there's life inside, looking towards the right in a surveillance sweep.

Austere lines, deadly heat waves, dusty land, and a dusty sky. All melting together. There's an unexpected silence about it, and the Duke almost admires it.

Almost.

"It's so quiet."

"Yeah." Gurney hums. "That's what worries me, too."

Behind them, the large and heavy doors are being pushed to keep the sunlight out as the heat starts to rise. Leto points to the distance, as neither him nor Gurney leave their spot.

"There's the spaceport," he points to the smoking building he was watching earlier, "and that plume of dust there is the spice refinery. Our two most vulnerable points. I want you guarding them. If we can't refine spice and ship it off-world, we're dead here."

"My lord," Lanville calls from behind, making him turn around. "The sun's getting too high. We need to seal the doors."

The Duke nods before he gives a sigh and looks out at the scorching planes of the desert before he takes a drink of water from his canteen. "What do they say about this hellhole again?"

"'To shower, you scrub your ass with sand,' my lord." Gurney replies, his expression as blank as ever. "That's what they say."

"That's what they say," Leto repeats.

While sharing a joke to difusse the current situation was a good way to put off some things, the inside of Arrakeen is more tense than ever. Being that Lady Jessica is interviewing potential servants while she and her family stay in the Residency. A line of eight women stands before her as she approaches, eyes cast down out of respect and some fear.

Thufir leads her to the line where a formal dining room with a table long enough to seat thirty lies. The mounted bull's head lies face-up on the table, with a guard by the door.

"Candidates for housekeeper, my lady," he explains, bowing before he makes his leave.

Jessica walks forward, examining the women with gentle, yet haunting footsteps as she crosses them. 

None of them look up.

She stops in front of one of them and asks, "What is your name?"

"Shadout Mapes, my lady." The servant calmly replies, her expression void, but her demeanor strong.

Blunt, to say the least.

"The rest of you may go," the Lady gently dismisses. "Thank you." Her gaze doesn't waver on the woman she's chosen. "Shadout. It's an old Chakobsa word. 'Well-dipper.'" She notes before suddenly speaking in Chakobsa, "You're Fremen."