lich ruler

[Miraqariftsky]

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(1d20+4)[15] Listen (1d20+4)[22] Spot (1d20+5)[11] Diplomacy

In the distance, dust-devils dance across the dunes, sending up storms of swirling sand. From the shadows of the dunes, there waft the glorious smells of growing cacti.

Ever and anon amongst the eddies of the wind-whipped desert there gleams the sinister white of the bleached bones of men who wandered the wastes without water. By the drifting hairs from seared hides, one could discern the carcasses of camels that lost their way and of other stranger beasts.

Neshi grins wildly at the wasteland, not even bothering to shield his eyes from the harsh glare of the sun. His once-alabaster teeth, now seem feral--- pointed and yellowed… yet seemingly he knows not or he cares not. The claws of the desert wind caress his face, making his newly-grown lion’s mane shake and whirr.

The man from Mulhorand then lets go of his plundered morningstar into the soft sand and reverently lays down the oh-so precious burden of the bodies of the two fallen comrades, Chuck and Martin. He drops to the dirt, cups the sand in his hands and lets it fall through his fingers slowly. Home, home, home! Horakhe be praised, no more cold! I'm hooome!

He turns to his comrades and proudly says with open arms, "Welcome, dear friends, to the Red Land of Mulhorand, my home of old!"

Seeing their discomfiture at the pounding, searing heat of a noontide desert sun, he digs in his worn pack and hands to them his old burnooses, veils, robes and cloaks. The weather-beaten clothes flap in the desert wind, giving Neshi the appearance of a dun-winged spirit of the waste, not unlike the djinn-folk. "Come comrades, take these. Such raiment is essential to any who seek to brave the sea of sand. Aye, and ye who have thy waterskins--- I highly advise ye to drink deeply therefrom yet spare some for the journey"

Neshi feels his sweat starting to bead and pop on his skin but he merely loosens the tunics and trousers that he wears. For thy sake, beloved Daiyanissa, these clothes I shall but doff to wash.

His smile fades as he glances at the mangled corpses of their two valiant companions. He had had to wrap Martin's corpse tightly in several cloaks, making him look like a slipshod mummy. The mace-blow of the Eker'sk had utterly crushed Chuck's ribcage while the spikes on that accursed weapon had torn open the smaller warrior's abdomen, disemboweling him. Thus it is that the Horakhar priest was hard-put to embalm the oft-maligned yet well-liked companion.

He heaves a heavy sigh. Neshi hands the Eker'sk maul to Yorrick with the words, "There, comrade. Now, prepared shalt thou be for when foes to blade's keen edge are invinvible. Keep thy loot well and with their own weapon, avenge our comrades, aye?"

The warrior-priest then straps his trusty shield upon his forearm once more and slowly draws his khopesh. The brazen blade glints with golden glare as it comes free of its jewelled scabbard, the edge seeming to sing with the familiar heat of the desert.

Kneeling beside the bodies of the honoured dead, Neshi addresses his comrades and asks them, "Have ye any final words for these fallen heroes ere I commence the final rites to lay them to their justly earned eternal rest?"

The wind blows, keening across the boundless wastes once more. Neshi’s ears flick and his wrinkled nostrils flare wide at two new scents. “Thousand spiting camels!”, he swears. He then spins about and rises into a wary crouch, shield held before himself defensively, sword raised and cocked. “Beware, comrades! Gaze ye yond, strangers approach!”

He inhales deeply, calming himself. The templar gazes intently at the approaching strangers and, discerning that they are neither fiends nor brigands, he relaxes ever so slightly. Slowly, he straightens and stands to his full height. Neshi lowers his shield a mite, then waves his sword in the air in token of greeting.

He whispers “Ie’r f’ohr kai” and the red flames wreathe the curving blade of the sickle-sword--- all the better for his signal to be seen. Neshi shouts a greeting to the two shadowed figures who approach the position of the companions. “Hail to thee, fellow pilgrims! I greet thee in the mighty name of Horus-Re! What bringest thy steps hither, if bold we make to ask?”

((to be cont'd) DONE!