The Slave Knight Part 1: The Dagon

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Son of Dune

The fuhries and the slave knights made their trek slow going, as they looked for the Son of Dune. They thought that maybe they would encounter someone or another to tell them of his whereabouts, but it was as Sir Jabberjaw had recounted. The Bost was bare, and all who once were and would be, no longer existed in the Bost for now or forevermore. It was empty. Deserted. There was no one and nothing for them, yet they persisted. The stealthy route was ruined by C, and so Zerg took this opportunity to have the fuhries call out the Son of Dune's name as loudly as they could, as they walked throughout the Bost.

A fit of giggles passed through Sir Jabberjaw with each yell, and the green they had been smoking did nothing to help compose himself. The party was a mess of yelling, laughing, and clomping through the Bost with their horses. Yet none came. No one pushed upon them. They were all alone save for themselves.

An eerie quiet rose to meet them as they went forth throughout the Bost. In most other places you would certainly hear the chirping of birds, the chittering of squirrels and other small animals, the movement of the wind, and the soft rustle of leaves passing through. In the Bost it was all void. It was the absence of sound that was annerving most, as all the warbands could hear was themselves, their breathing, their clomping through the stone ground, and the nervous chatter that brushed about through them all. The slave knights talked about nothing in particular or pertinent, just the oddity of it all. Just the weirdness of the place before them and how creepy it was to be in an abandoned city. It gave them no solace to be in such a place, yet they had a debt to pay, and the Son of Dune would surely help them in getting to the Island of Roads. Surely he would.

At least, many hoped.

Sir Winifred had stayed close to the fuhries, as her beloved Sir Jabberjaw was near them, but not for altogether altruistic or honorable reasons. Sir Winifred saw it best to make sure Sir Jabberjaw did not kill himself with the green he smoked, and knew that he would be near useless in a fight given his current state. C and Yordhan, while giddy and more playful than usual, lost no sense in battle with their many tokes of the green. In light of it all, she brandished her dual axes ready to pounce at the first sight of danger, to kill or be killed for Sir Jabberjaw's sake.

Sir Wallace was less than confident. While he readily wielded his war hammer, he thought it best to keep himself to the outskirts of the warbands. Far away from the head, and not asserting himself near as much as he could, or should, for that matter as a leader. It was a sad sight to watch a battle commander fall so low, and to be dangling in the wind, doing nothing of substance.

Sir Jonus was Sir Jonus. Asleep upon his massive bed, being dragged by horses who truly felt the weight of his massiveness. They had been drenched in sweat and their muscles were cramping harder with every step. The horses' breath had become labored, yet they would not whine or cry at all, given the pride that was deeply rooted in their high elven heritage. They would take their charge as far and wide as they needed, no matter how much it hurt. No matter how immensely they would suffer for it, they would ride so until they were killed, or upon their dying breath.

Sir Yashua and Durug took their station and role much more seriously. They looked through every crack and crevice for any sign of habitation, or this Son of Dune. They looked high and wide into the building faces. Faces that were massive and wondrous. Through broken windows and facades. Through shattered walls, and empty husks, finding nothing and no one, but always willing to help fulfill their side of the bargain, as best and as plainly as possible.

Lastly, Sir Jessup. He remained alone. Probing mentally further, and wider than all. For any glimpse of hope, for any glimpse of life and living, yet he could only feel faint murmings of something in the distance. A low growl here, a rustle there. A lone light miles away in the midst of an abysmal and endless darkness. It was not enough to get a direction, nor a place for them to venture. It was solely an amorphous feeling that was wistful and fleeting at best. Anthony and Sir Jared could catch no more than Sir Jessup, in spite of their combined efforts.