bakerstreet | The Desert Caravan Meme

(She's most likely a Traveler)

[regular canon-ish, au stuff, cross-canon stuff, thought could maybe even roll a "anakin never left tatooine and now he's fighting to free the slaves" sort of thing or something]

[ desert rat open to all things! ]

[Desert rat meets hermit-nomad? Even the loneliest of hermits needs to come into town for supplies sometime and they're bound to run into people no matter what.]

[ omg, yess! she could meet him at Niima outpost for scavenging or trading supplies. and I apologize profusely for not having gotten to your other tag, yet. I still mean to, if that's alright with you? ]

[It was not my finest tag I have to admit, but I'm still down if you think you could salvage it, or I could take another look at it and make it at least decent :P

Also totally down for him drifting into Niima outpost for supplies. Maybe they kind of passingly know each other, but have never talked?]

[ no, believe me, it was fine! I'll definitely get to it, if it's alright with you.

and yep, to the second part - sounds good! ]

Jakku was a desert planet. It was sand dunes and dust storms, a planet that baked during the day and froze at night. Rain, when it fell, was all-encompassing, massive storms that swept whole quadrants of the planet at once, dumping water for days or even weeks at a time. There were times when the little oasis towns floated.

Still, despite the rains, little grew on the planet. The plants were tough and hard, the animals small and stringy. With the help of enough technology, enough light could be reflected down into sandstone caverns carved by water and wind and time to grow crops, but the rain always filled them, made them uninhabitable until it seeped down through the rock.

Few people - few creatures, even - managed to live in the sand caverns. The caverns ranged in size from winding passages to monstrously large caverns, but any who did manage to live in them had to emerge from them when the rains came, or be drowned in a flood.

There was one such cavern, located within a few days' walk of Niima Outpost. Niima, built on a hill as it was, at least didn't float away during the rains. It was safe enough to stay there.

The owner of that particular cavern, like all the others, had left the cavern nearly a week before the rains came - and living there long enough, inhabitants simply knew when they were destined, whether by some innate sense, or the change in the rock around them - and made his way into Niima.

Like all the others, he was thin, rather drawn, pale and shrouded against the sun. He was tall, but human, shoulders broad. The fabric drawn around him, covering every scrap of skin, was like a shroud, the pack on his back almost comically large.

Stepping into Niima Outpost was like stepping into another world - probably a lot like one of these Surfacers coming down into a cavern - it was alive, people of various species milling around, working, talking. It was noisy and vibrant, clusters of stalls selling or bartering, the gut-sickening smell of cooking meat (at least to him, who lived solely off of what he grew in his cavern). It was foreign to him.

It took a while for him to noticed, but once he was... well, they all knew where he had come from, who he was.

"How many days?" One of them called out and in response he held up three fingers. Three days until the rain came. He crossed through the outpost without lowering his three raised fingers, to dispel any more questions being asked him. The sun was bright overhead, it was achingly bright, and all he wanted to do was make his most important trade before finding somewhere cool and dark to rest.

He settled into the back of a long line then crouched down, back of his head to the sun. He closed his eyes - it was highly unlikely anybody would bother him here. They knew him, knew what he provided them, and knew that it was foolish to mess with him.

Edited 2016-03-04 07:08 (UTC)

The only thing even remotely comfortable about Rey's life was her routine; scavenge, bring the parts she'd acquired to a clean-up station in Niima, and then offer them to Plutt for her daily rations.

At the outpost, there were all sorts of creatures and characters mingling together for a common purpose — scavengers, buyers, traders from on-and-off world. Rey knew most of the regulars by name, even if she didn't associate with them. Associations and friendships, even with other human scavengers like herself, inevitably ended in disappointment and betrayal. Devi and Strunk had taught her that.

She sighed as she spotted the length of the queue in line for a particular trader's wares; Plutt had encouraged her to attempt to trade a couple of choice pieces for ship parts he needed on one of his projects, and had promised to throw a couple more quarter portions in if she'd do so. She huffed irritably and set her bag of parts on the ground, just behind the man covered in a shroud.

And then she realized who the man was — a prophet of sorts, she'd heard him called before — and tapped him lightly on one shrouded shoulder.

" — Hey. You're that guy." Wonderfully eloquent, but the best she could do with her sadly-lacking conversational skills. "How long until the rains come?"

He turned at the tap on his shoulder, simultaneously flinching and ducking away from more bright light in his eyes. He peered up at the person who had spoken - human, female, a bag of parts... a scavenger, then, a veritable (if not literal) desert rat. He stared for maybe a moment too long (not that he really thought of it that way) then held up three fingers again.

He stared at her for a moment longer, then turned to his pack. He pushed some of the things inside around and pulled out a slate and piece of white writing-stone. He glanced up at her, then at the parts behind her, before sketching out a piece that he was looking for. It was little more than a gyroscope, but he used it to steady mirrors into place - since they had to be adjusted all the time as the sun changed position in the sky - and it had broken on one of his most important mirrors. He'd replaced it with one from another mirror, but that one needed to be replaced now.

He turned and showed her the slate, peering out at her from the narrow slit in the fabric of his covering. Then he pointed at it, and at her bag.

Then he turned to his bag and dug through it again, coming up with a handful of fresh carrots - he'd had to pick them before coming in since they would be lost to the flood anyways, but had stayed fresh in his pack - which was not just a simple pack, though it looked it from the outside. They were bright orange against the dust of the desert below their feet, the green tops cut short to save space.

...Three fingers. Three days. Rey knew her tiny little metal home would be insulated enough from the flooding rains that would go on for days at a time, but she needed at least a couple of days' worth of preparation in order to make it completely water-proof, as well as to prepare her collection containers for the deluge of fresh water. She'd get started on it that night, then, in the event the stranger was wrong and the rains came a day early — although from the talk she'd overheard, he'd never given a false prediction.

Then the strange hermit was turning to his overloaded pack and rummaging around inside it, and Rey watched curiously as he pulled out the slab and writing utensil. He began to draw, sketching in quick, precise movements, and she stared at the picture being outlined and brought to life. A mechanical piece, a gyroscope, she knew — she'd seen enough of them in her salvaging exploits to recognize it even from a simple drawing — and he was asking her for it most likely because he'd correctly deduced that she sold and traded scrap, judging by the looks he'd given her mesh bag full of parts.

She did in fact have one she'd intended to bargain with, at the window at the head of the queue. Rey wasn't opposed to trades but she'd been burnt enough by other untrustworthy scavengers to be wary of an unsolicited transaction. Plutt was repulsive and stingy with his payments, but at least she'd known him long enough to be confident he wasn't going to cheat her out of more than a couple portion's worth. This stranger, on the other hand...

" — No," she lied automatically, squinting in the sun and shaking her head when he pointed at the slate and then at her bag. "I don't have one, sorry. I — "

But then he was turning to his bag again and pulling something out of it, a bunch of somethings that were a beautiful vibrant orange color with green stems, and her eyes nearly popped out of her head; from the look and fresh earthy-sweet scent of them she immediately recognized it as food of some sort although completely foreign to her. Rey stared at the offering, completely transfixed, train of thought successfully derailed.

"What is that?" Quickly she went on, knowing he wasn't about to speak, nodding her head: "You're willing to trade those? For a gyroscope?"

He smiled behind the fabric and nodded. He separated a carrot from the bunch and broke it in half. He offered the larger half to the scavenger girl then nibbled at the piece still in his hand, pulling down the fabric enough. His skin was deathly pale, but there were some dark freckles on his cheeks. His nose was still covered in a piece of fabric, and as soon as he finished his half of the carrot he tugged the fabric back up, tugging at the knot at the back of his head.

He watched her carefully, then set the carrots back down in his bag - so they didn't get dusty. He had a huge array of vegetables and what fruits he could grow in the pack, all for trade, all surplus from his crop- some was packaged safely up to last him, this was the remainder.

He swiped his hand over the slate and drew out another part he needed: an air compressor. There was a variety of small parts he wanted to trade for, and the trades would be for some of the only fresh food available on the planet.

He pushed around in the back and came up with a few potatoes - they were deep red and large, the insides a dark purple and when cooked, were velvety soft and almost sweet. He looked between the slate and the scavenger girl. Some stuff he wasn't able to get from scavengers, but she would give him a better price than traders could.

Edited 2016-03-05 20:18 (UTC)

The only thing slightly more distracting than the sweet-smelling, orange root being split in half with a satisfying crunching sound was the sight of the stranger pulling down the gauzy shroud away enough from the lower part of his face for him to bite into it. Rey watched — trying not to be obvious about it, and failing miserably — as he bared white teeth past soft-looking lips and freckled cheeks, and ate.

Human, like herself, as she'd guessed from the slight glimpse she'd gotten through his coverings of his eyes but not known for certain. With the way he kept himself so completely shrouded against the sun, she hadn't been sure he wasn't one of the other native species to Jakku underneath his robes. She almost mourned the sight when he covered himself back up after eating, her eyes glancing over his covered mouth.

She took the larger half he'd offered, and after testing it tentatively with a pink tongue, bit into it the way he had. The texture was odd but the flavor was incredible, as she bit down — it was hard but yielded almost immediately to chewing, falling apart in her mouth, sweet and cool and like nothing else she'd ever tasted. Rey inhaled the rest of it, stuffing her cheeks, even gnawing the green stem with relish.

He drew as she ate, sketching out another piece and she paused to interrupt him even as her mouth was full, nodding. " — I have it, actually. A gyroscope. I can trade it, for — " And then she paused, as she looked down at a rudimentary drawing of an air compressor. " — I have that too. A few of them."

The other items he drew from the bag cinched it; the round ones were even lovelier than the orange ones, dark red with hints of purple where a divot marked its flesh. Rey quickly realized his bag was full of such treasures, fresh foods she'd never before experienced, and selfishly she decided then and there to forgo what Plutt wanted in order to reward herself for her own endeavors.

She'd worked for these parts, after all. It was only right.

"...Come on," she encouraged the shrouded man, gathering up her sack of scavenged wares and encouraging him to do the same with his produce. "Let's get somewhere in the shade, out of this line. We can go over what I have, if you'd like."

Edited 2016-03-06 00:40 (UTC)

He nodded after a moment, smiling when she said she had both the parts. He put the slate and stone away, as well as the potatoes, then slipped his arms through the straps of his bag and stood.

Shade sounded like a welcome relief, even if he would have preferred the dark of his sleeping cavern. Walking back into the main trading area it got noisier, but the tent they settled under was empty except for them, at least for now. He glanced around as he dropped onto his haunches, sliding his pack off his back and to the sand.

He dug around in his pack and last and pulled out a list. It was written on paper, of all things, but no paper that Rey might have ever seen, scavenged from some ship: it was thick enough that it almost didn't bend.

The piece of paper was covered in strange letters - it certainly wasn't Common. He glanced from her to his list then back down again, before pulling out another writing instrument - a pen. He made two careful marks on the list, then pulled out the carrots and potatoes again, offering her half a dozen of the carrots and two potatoes for the two parts.

He needed an assortment of things, parts being just one of them, and he couldn't trade away all of his crops to this scavenger girl - he needed shadecloth, and seeds, and a new water basin - the ground filtered his water for him, so that was fine, the deep pool in his cavern system filling yearly from the runoff more than enough to water his plants and himself for a whole year. Still, he didn't bathe in the pool, and his basin had cracked a while ago, so he'd been having to make due.

Rey nodded as he made marks on what she instinctively knew was an itemized list of parts he needed, to be paid for with the food he'd brought; the trade seemed fair, the armful of fresh treats in return for the two pieces he'd drawn for her.

She dug into the mesh sack of scrap to dig the items out, brushing off any residual dust and sand from them, before handing them to him in return for what he offered. Rey was inordinately pleased with both herself and with the shrouded stranger she'd bargained with — to have barely known someone and yet made a successful trade like this inspired something akin to a modicum of trust on her part. She so badly wanted to believe there was something good in people, something of value in even the simplest of interactions.

She pensively eyed the young man up and down over his coverings — because he was young, if the skin he'd bared while he'd eaten had suggested anything — before leaning forward again. He may not have had the luxury of words, but he seemed to be able to communicate effectively without them, somehow. "How did you get here, to Niima?" she asked, gently. "Where are you from?"

He took the parts and looked them over. They were in good condition, cleaned up well aside from some dust. He checked that the gyroscope worked - it would be better than the one that had broken. That one had always had some strange hitches, but this one would be perfect. The compressor also looked to be in working order. Satisfied, he pushed the vegetables over towards her.

He tucked the parts into another part of his pack, then returned to his slate. Instead of miming or trying to write a message, he drew: a small figure walking through the sand from a rough approximation of a cave - the mouth of which looked nothing like his own cave, of course. He drew four suns in the sky - four days' walk. Then he turned the slate to the girl, showing her.

If he showed any interest in her appearance, he didn't much show it. Still, he was happy to sit and talk with her - communicate. Too much noise gave him a headache, but these times when he was out of the caverns was his only time to hear voices that were speaking words he could understand - if the rats had a language, he hadn't yet been able to figure it out.

He took the slate back after a moment and wiped the drawing away with his sleeve, looking back up at the girl, watching her closely.

This time he drew a picture depicting what she assumed had been his trek; a large cave, a rudimentary figure of him walking through the mouth of it, and then four days' walk through the hot sun. Four days, with his enormous pack — not to mention the parts he'd inevitably be trading for, which were going to be undoubtedly heavier than what he carried now — and no other means of transportation.

And then something suddenly occurred to her: "...But wait — if the rains are coming in three days, and it takes you four to get back to your cave, you won't make it in time before the deluge hits." She eyed him with concern; the man was still a relative stranger to her somewhat, but they'd made a successful trade and he seemed a bit starved for companionship, or at least for dialogue and conversation at the very least.

"...I have a speeder. It would take you only a few hours to reach your cave, again."

His shoulders jerked in a motion that might have indicated a laugh, except he didn't make any noise. He began to draw again: a rough cavern shape, filled with water nearly to the brim, and rain hitting the surface above, a little figure struggling to stay afloat, then turned to show it to the girl.

Almost instantly he turned it back and wrote out in careful, clumsy Common, DONT STAY and showed it to her again.

As far as her offer to give him a ride to his cave... He knew better than to let anybody else into his cave. Last time that had happened, that he had been naive and trusting enough... He shook his head a little and looked down. It was nothing personal to her. It just wasn't safe for his way of living to let anybody know where he lived.

He wiped the slate clean and changed the subject with a drawing of another part - a hinge, with the dimensions marked in a numerical system she likely wouldn't recognize.

A quick dig around in his pack and he came out with a length of knotted string - his ruler.

The little lift of his shoulders in what might have been a chortle of laughter was more intriguing to Rey than perhaps it should have been; she smiled in recognition of it, even before he sketched out a little drawing to show him floundering helplessly in the drowned-out cave.

"...Don't stay," she read, and nodded, amused. "Your cave floods, then."

He went back to drawing more, sketching out another piece he was interested in, and in the interim Rey took another orange root out of the bunch he'd given her and snapped off a bite. She couldn't get over how delicious it was, torn between wanting to savor it but wanting to shove it all into her mouth at the first opportunity.

The next piece he sketched out was a hinge of some sort, but the dimensions were unknown to her. Even so, she had several such pieces of various sizes in her own collection.

She shook her head as she chewed. "Not here, though," she informed him. "I don't have that piece here — it's back in my dwelling." She would have to go retrieve it and come back, which wasn't an impossibility but it would take a bit more time...and there was her home to secure down before the rains came.

Again she studied him with an assessing look. "Where will you stay, then, during the rains? Here in Niima?" There wasn't much cover at the outpost, not against the torrential downpour that was likely to hit.

Edited 2016-03-09 08:38 (UTC)

He nodded and stashed the cord away, then swiped the slate clean. He watched her eat for a moment - small, neat bites, like she was trying not to eat too much too fast.

She didn't have one, but it was possible one of the other scavengers or traders did. He shrugged at the question then wrote awkwardly, WHO EVER TAKES IN. He had no real problem staying with strangers - the biggest problem was always the noise. He was used to sleeping in silence, and the sounds of other people, especially their breathing, could be bothersome.

He wrote below that message MORE TRADES TO MAKE then turned to start closing up his pack again.

"...Whomever takes you in," Rey repeated quietly, thoughtfully, even as he scribbled another note below it. More trades to make. She gave him a polite nod. "...Of course."

Rey wondered just how many travelers and traders who frequented Niima Outpost willingly took in strangers during something like the torrential rains, even ones willing to negotiate beneficial trades. What if no one did? He'd be left to fend for himself during the deluge and flooding with no cover, nowhere to keep himself dry.

You shouldn't care, a cold, callous, survivalist part of her whispered, the thought stilling her as he closed up his pack; you had one trade with him, that's all — a business transaction. You owe him nothing.

...Remember what had happened, the last time you'd trusted someone. Fellow scavengers Devi and Strunk had used her for her mechanical expertise, absconding off-world with the downed 690 light freighter after Rey had repaired it with parts they'd supplied, instead of selling it to Plutt as Rey had planned. Her own project, that she'd spent months and months repairing and fixing for an enormous payoff, and they'd left her with nothing.

It was the recollection of the betrayal she'd experienced that stayed her hand when she would have stopped him from tying up his pack; instead Rey watched him, still chewing slowly on her orange root, the look in her eyes torn and conflicted.

Edited 2016-03-09 19:50 (UTC)

He didn't move to get up right away and instead just stayed settled in the sand. He would just have to get up and get back in line in the sun if he stood, and she wasn't moving, so there was no real point in going anywhere just yet.

Instead, he reached into another pocket of his pack and pulled out a small canister. He opened it and set the canister on his knee then carefully started to unwrap the fabric from around his hands and fingers.

His palms and nearly the entirety of his fingers were covered in a thick white scar. It was part of the reason for his clumsy writing, he could hardly bent his fingers. Carefully, he scooped up small bits of the cream from the canister and rubbed his palms together, then his fingers, humming in relief as the tightness of the skin started to ease.

This had been only part of what happened the first and last time he'd trusted somebody to know where he lived, allowed somebody into the cavern that was his home.

It was the same incident that left him unable to speak, and more scars all up his legs and back. He looked up at the girl then sighed a little. He understood why she wasn't about to offer him the chance to stay with her - he was an unknown, as strange a creature as one of those that lived in the deep desert, weeks and weeks of travel from any sort of settlement.

He'd find somebody else to give him shelter during the storm, somebody to share the food in his pack with. There was always somebody.

Rey sat as well in the sandy shade, her mind busy with debating the ethics of her choice to let him go on his way; he didn't seem in a particular hurry to leave, and it offered ample opportunity to continue to watch him. But when he brought out the canister of lotion and started removing the wrappings covering his hands and fingers, her eyes widened.

Now she understood the imperfect letters he'd been writing — he could just barely bend his fingers enough to hold the utensil, much less do anything else that required intricate hand-work. An injury...and given how hard life was on Jakku, most likely not self-inflicted.

She looked pointedly at his hand, his scarred fingers and palm, before looking back into his eyes through the shroud. "...Did someone do that to you? To your hands?"

Something clicked in her mind, falling into place at witnessing this quiet, scarred, lonely man, and she came to an almost immediate decision. "...If I give you shelter where I live, during the rains, I promise you that I won't hurt you." Her words were accompanied by a sincere nod. "I swear it to you."

[Also i've already changed my mind, only his right hand is scarred to the point where he can't bend his fingers, his left hand is much less bad, he's got closer to full range of motion]

He nodded after a moment, but kept his attention down on his fingers. He pressed his left thumb into a lump of scar tissue. It hurt, all the way up his arm and into the back of his skull, but it was better than the usual tingly numbness.

He listened to her talk, turning the words over in his mind. He wondered, quietly, how old she was. How long she'd been out here in the desert, scavenging at ships to try to keep enough food in her belly to work to scavenge parts.

His cavern was large enough, there was enough rich dirt held captive, he could-- no, he couldn't. He'd thought he could so long ago and instead he'd ended up how he was - damaged, muted, scarred to the point of near incapacitation. There's enough dirt to support two of us, and have extra, he thought anyways.

But this wasn't about his home, it was about hers. She was offering her home to him. She probably saw his scars and felt sorry for him. He couldn't blame her, he'd sent a long time feeling sorry for himself.

He nodded again after a moment and behind the fabric, he smiled.

He finished rubbing the cream into his hands and re-wrapped the bandages, then returned the canister to his pack. From yet another pocket, he pulled out a small box. He peeked inside, then closed it. She was going to take him in, he was going to make sure she was repaid that. This was just the first of what he could provide during his stay.

He wrote on the slate, KEEP CLOSED. OPEN WHEN HOME. AS THANKS then passed the box over. He then stood, slipping his pack back on. He needed to make more trades before the stalls closed and no doubt the girl needed to settle things as well.

If he'd asked, she would have made it clear to him that it was less about pity — something she detested to be the recipient of, herself — and more because of a recognition of shared trauma, at what was likely a trusted person's hands. Rey's scars of abandonment and betrayal were internal, unlike this man's, and yet she knew they were crippling her emotionally all the same.

Alongside it came an innate desire to protect; if his hands were compromised, he wouldn't have much chance of defending himself were he to be attacked again for his wares.

Rey accepted the small box curiously after the stranger had rewrapped his hands, wide-eyed first and then wrinkling her nose in bemusement as he stood and slung his pack over his shoulder. Open when home. As thanks. A gift, and she hadn't even let him inside, yet.

"...You're not going to tell me what it is?" But she was grinning. She'd never received a gift before, not that she were ever able to remember, and giddy as a child she tried to guess what was inside it, holding it to her ear and shaking it gently even as he watched. She couldn't see it, but she imagined a smile underneath the shroud covering his mouth.

It was high time she headed back to Plutt to collect whatever meager rations he deigned fit for her salvages, so she stood as well, gathering her wares and placing the small gift box in the separate small pouch slung low across her hip. "I'll meet you back at the south entrance, when you're done. I won't take long."

The parts she'd gathered that day were apparently valuable enough to Plutt to warrant worth three quarter portions, even though Rey had estimated their worth at five. Strangely, Plutt had the audacity to ask of the companion she'd been seen talking with, but Rey had in not-so-polite terms told the blobnose to bugger off, that it was none of his business, and her trade made she headed out to the outpost's south entrance without further delay.

The stranger was waiting for her, as agreed upon; the sight of him stirred something in her that she vaguely recognized as anticipation, coupled with the still ever-present apprehension at extending her fragile trust toward someone. She'd never had a guest before now, in the meager shelter of a hollowed-out AT-AT that she called her home; not even Devi or Strunk had been allowed to visit her there.

I should ask him his name. Referring to him as a stranger, even in her head, seemed inappropriate if he would be staying in close quarters with her for the next several days.

Edited 2016-03-10 08:44 (UTC)

He shook his head in response to her question. She would find out when she opened it. He turned and resettled in a line.

By the time he was done with the trades - or most of them, there was a handful of things that he hadn't been able to collect but could be brought in the next day - he was tired enough that he just wanted to curl up into a ball in the sand and sleep. He was about to lay down when he saw the girl coming - she was hard to ignore, now that he'd met her.

He watched her approach. His pack had taken on new cargo - in addition to the parts he'd traded for, there was also a large plastic water basin tied over the entirety of the pack, almost large enough to be bumping into the backs of his knees. He lifted a hand to greet the girl as she drew closer, but had trouble straightening - he was sore, and exhausted, and the heat was getting to him. He longed, more than ever, for the quiet cool comfort of his cave.

Rey was used to scavenging from sunup to late afternoon, making one and sometimes two trips to Niima to clean and sell her wares, but while she was often energetic even after a full day's work, on this day she was exhausted as well. She recognized the shrouded man instantly — noting his stooped posture — and pointed him to her speeder, only a few yards away.

"That one's mine." He'd apparently made more trades by the look of what he was carrying, although she couldn't deduce what the plastic basin could be for. Nevertheless as he approached her speeder and she'd finished hauling the remainder of her salvage into the hauling tarp on the vehicle's side, she nodded at him. "Yours'll fit, as well. Pack whatever you can onto here, and then climb on." A stern look. "No matter how tired you are, hang onto me tightly — it goes very fast."

She fixed her goggles and her shoulder-wrap around the lower part of her face and hoisted herself onto the seat, waiting for him to join her.

He obeyed because he was too tired to do anything else. He wrestled the pack into place, being careful not to put too much pressure where the food was kept so it didn't get damaged, then clambered up behind the girl. He settled into place, then carefully reached out, curling his arms around her waist. He couldn't have said the last time he was so physically close to anything that wasn't a cave rat. She was warm, and smelled like sun and sand and oil. There was a strength in her that wasn't apparent just by looking - she was hardened not only by the desert, but her past, whatever that might be.

He nodded when he felt secure enough - his face was pressed to her back, she'd be able to feel it.

There was virtually nothing that had felt more odd to Rey in the entirety of her life than the feeling of the stranger's face pressed into the back of her spine where her shoulders met, his arms around her middle grasping her as tightly as he was able given his weariness. She was so unused to physical contact that she flinched at first, unable to help herself, before relaxing into the touch. She didn't remember if anyone, even her parents, had ever embraced her in such a manner.

The thought was banished almost as soon as it had floated into her mind and she started up the speeder, cautioning him to hold on.

It was a half-hour's ride across the sands — past the Imperial wreckages of both the Ravager and the Inflictor, great carcasses hulking in the distance — to her dwelling, and by the time they'd stopped Rey could sense her passenger was even more drained than she'd sensed earlier. She climbed off and unpacked their combined wares, hauling his in addition to her own without another word. She may have appeared lithe, but she was wiry and strong from her years of climbing and scavenging.

The entrance to her little home within the hollowed-out AT-AT was a large cannon turret that could be sealed off with a durasteel cover for when the rains came, effectively proofing the insides; she clambered inside, motioning for him to follow. Inside he would see that while the quarters were cramped, it was indeed possible to stand to full height, even his; she'd cleared the floor path of most of the consoles and equipment left over from the machine's use, so it was surprisingly easy to move around as well. There was a rudimentary stove and cooking utensils off to the left, a sleeping compartment off to the right, and several containers of something packed tightly into the compartments against the foreground wall. It was quiet inside, cool and dark, no sound penetrating the hull save for the door that was opened.

He closed his eyes at about the same time they went past the wrecked ships. They were going way, way too fast. It was enough to almost make him dizzy. He was only too glad when it stopped, though prying his arms loose from around the girl's waist was a task in and of itself. Still, he managed, just in time for her to drop off the speeder and into the sand.

He himself was much slower clambering down, and by the time he got his feet on solid sand again, she already had his pack in hand and all he could do was follow.

The inside of whatever kind of vehicle or fighter she'd made her home in was large enough on the inside, and it was insulated from the heat outside by whatever it was made of and the sand.

He peered around the little home she'd made for herself once his eyes had adjusted - it was cluttered, but functional. It was also clearly not designed for two people. He blinked, then settled in the first bit of open space that was not directly in some sort of path, taking his pack back. He rested his chin on the pack then looked at the girl, watching her even while he blinked tiredly. He was too tired to even ask what kind of machine this was, how long she had lived here, his slate seeming a thousand miles away even though it was right in front of him in his pack.

Rey bustled about her small dwelling, moving things around and making more space for her decidedly taller guest, chattering all the while as she did so. It wasn't as though she'd ever made a habit of talking to herself, and she was aware he wouldn't converse in reply unless he were to take out his writing slate, but it was such a novel experience to actually have someone there with her, listening, that she found the words came easily and effortlessly.

"It's not much, I know, but it's been my home for the last twelve years — since I was six or seven years old. Before that, I was living at Niima Outpost under the care of Unkarr Plutt, the junk dealer." She shook her head as she moved about, lighting small oil lamps in some of the darker corners of her residence as dusk encroached outside, the shadows growing longer. Her lip curled in disgust. "Detestable being. I could never shake the feeling that he was always looking for an opportunity to slobber all over me, first chance he got. I struck out on my own, and found this place." She looked up at the low ceiling fondly, musing to herself. "It used to be an Imperial war machine, and now — now I can't think of it as anything other than a shelter. My home."

A glance over at her companion again showed her just how bone-tired he was, chinning himself on his pack, and her dark eyes softened slightly. "You can remove your headscarf, if you wish, the air is plenty clean, in here." Her request was as much born of selfishness as it was altruism; she wanted very much to see another glimpse of his freckled cheeks, that soft mouth.

While she had his attention, she lifted the two red potatoes he'd given her as payment for parts in her hand for his view. "Do you cook these? I'll let you rest and get some sleep very soon, but first you should eat something."

Twelve years here, since she was six or seven. So she was nineteen, or near there. Still, he liked listening to her talking, the quiet rise and fall of her voice. It was unique. It was rare for him to be able to listen to people talk, even when he was among them. They always wanted to talk trade deals, or about produce, but not about anything else.

He sat up a little then sighed again, before he reached for the knot at the back of his head. He carefully worked it free then let the fabric fall into a pile around his neck that he had to lift off. He did, piling it into his lap, then lifted his head to look around the little shelter again.

His hair was long and dark, tied into a loose knot at the back of his head with a bit of string, and it framed his pale face and dark eyes. There was a thick scar, the same white as was on his hands, that started at the side of his head just in front of his left ear, swept down over the front of his throat, then down into the neck of his robes.

He blinked slowly, then looked down at his pack. He carefully pulled out his slate and his stone then wrote BOILING EASIEST. before turning the slate to the girl. He reached into his pack again and pulled out four potatoes, offering them out.

Trying not to watch too attentively was difficult, as the stranger unbound the gauzy, breathable shroud around his face and unwound it until his entire head was bared.

She'd been right with her initial assessment of him. Pale cheeks dotted with freckles, a full, sensitive mouth, and pitch-dark hair that made his features stand out all the more in contrast. He had a strong nose and a furtive, expressive look to his dark eyes, but she couldn't help but notice the scar running prominently down his throat as well. Rey wondered who'd been responsible for the extent of the damage to his skin; she made a mental note to ask him at another time, when the question wouldn't perhaps seem as intrusive and prying.

She took the additional proffered food, nodding to him in thanks. It was to be a shared meal, then, and spontaneously as she set water on her little stove to a flash-boil she decided to throw in the orange roots along with it. They were delicious raw, but most likely just as good cooked.

"What's your name?" she asked, hoping to keep the conversation going. If he wasn't up to writing with his stylus for very long she would cease with her questions, but she hoped to at least get that out of him before he was too tired to comply.

His name? It wasn't something he'd thought about for a long time. He frowned, then stared down at his slate for a long few moments. What was his name? It'd been so long since he'd even been able to speak, and when was the last time he'd been asked his name? Did he even remember it?

Finally he shrugged. Maybe if he thought about it, he would remember after a while. He wrote instead, YOURS? and looked up at her.

She looked at his slate and then at the lift of his shoulders with his shrug, puzzled, before lifting her eyes to his again. "...Rey," she answered, still looking a bit stunned at his deflection. Surely he'd had a name, at some point. "Mine is Rey."

There was a moment's debate where she considered not asking, but then she found she couldn't help herself. "You don't have a name? — Or you don't remember it?"

Edited 2016-03-14 00:46 (UTC)

Rey. It suited her. He smiled a little at his slate, then wrote again. DONT REMEMBER. LONG TIME SINCE ANYBODY CALLED ME IT. He turned the message to her then focused his attention on the rest of the room, mostly considering. If he was going to remember, it would take time. If not, then it hardly mattered and he could likely just make a name up for himself.

ILL HAVE TO THINK ABOUT. YOU SHOULD OPEN GIFT. He smiled up at her. He knew she would like it. He'd yet to meet a person - a human, especially - who didn't like what he kept in boxes like that.

[The answer to 'what's in the box' is strawberries, just fyi ;) ]

Edited (icons) 2016-03-14 00:50 (UTC)

— Ah. So he most likely did have one, she realized, and Rey's shoulders sagged slightly in relief. She couldn't imagine someone having gone for so long without human companionship, of some sort; she'd long forgotten what her parents looked like, their faces an indistinct blur in her hazy four-year-old memories, or even what their names had been — but she'd never in that entire time forgotten what her own was.

"I'll need to call you something, though," she reasoned, somewhat good-naturedly when he wrote the rest of his message, encouraging her to open his gift now that they were indoors. "Or perhaps I'll make something up." His smile was convincing though, as much as it was distracting, and she nodded and did as he asked.

She removed the little box he'd given her in Niima from the knapsack she'd left in the corner, glancing at him with an anticipatory look before she opened it. Inside were a glistening bunch of the most beautiful things she'd ever seen; they were plant foods, as were the others he'd shown her, but they were small oval ones, the most vibrant color of red she'd ever seen anywhere on Jakku, speckled with tiny seeds and crowned with green stems.

They filled the room with a sweet aroma when she'd opened the box, and her lips gaped as she lifted her eyes to his once more, even as her mouth watered at the scent. "These...these are to eat?" They looked too beautiful to eat, if she'd had to be honest.

He grinned when she opened the box. The strawberries were fresh and ripe - the last things he'd picked before leaving, packed carefully into their box- and he nodded. He made a gesture towards her, encouraging her to try one.

Strawberries were one of his favorite crops. And not every plant managed to make it through. This was the best of his batch for the year, the most beautiful, the most perfect. The less-ripe ones, the ones that weren't as beautiful, he'd turned into a mash kept safe in a jar, for the coming year. It was just as good as what Rey had in her hands, but not as beautiful.

He sat up a little, then reached out and took one of the berries. He tilted his hands to show Rey how to remove the stem, then offered her the berry itself.

Truth be told, she was still uncertain whether she wanted to eat something so lovely; when he showed her how to remove the stem, taking a berry himself and demonstrating before handing it back to her, she followed suit and held it to her nose. It was fragrant, almost floral, like nothing she'd ever smelled before.

Hesitantly she put her teeth around the tip, and took a bite. The flavor bowled her over, sweet and tart in turns; Rey closed her eyes to savor it, nearly swaying on her feet.

"...Oh." The groan that came out of her mouth most likely sounded indecent to anyone else's ears. She opened her eyes and finished the berry in three huge bites, licking the residual juice from her fingers with relish before glancing over at him sheepishly again.

"It's wonderful." Her voice was soft with reverence, before she held the box out to him. "Here, have one. I don't want to eat them all, by myself." It's not every day she's had someone to share in such an experience with.

He smiled but took one of the berries when it was offered to him. He removed the stem and leaves, then took at bite of the strawberry. They'd weathered the trip well, not even bruised. Still, there was nothing like a fresh strawberry. He ate his in smaller bites, then leaned back against the bulkhead when he was done, lapping the juice off his fingers before closing his eyes.

He was tired, and hungry, but the potatoes should have been done soon enough - he could eat and then rest.

After a minute, he opened his eyes to look at Rey. She was so young, vibrant... Like a beam of the sunlight her name seemed to be derived from - or at least mimic. He might not have been a creature of the sun like she was - and her tan attested to that - but he did rely on the sun. It fed his plants, grew them, helped him to live where few others could.

He closed his eyes again, slate in his lap still, and found himself dozing easily. For once, the presence of another person wasn't keeping him awake - or maybe he was just too exhausted.

His reaction to eating the strawberries was probably a reflection of her own, she thought, watching him devour it and then lick his fingers clean in what was likely a mirror image of her. Rey let her lips curve in a faint smirk of amusement before she turned back to the cooking potatoes.

Between that moment and the next, when she turned back to glance at her guest again, his eyes were closed and he was leaning against the bulkhead, dozing, breathing slowly and steadily. The food was done, but there was no sense in waking him if he needed rest so badly; she reserved a substantial portion for him and tucked into her own food when it had cooled sufficiently, watching him curiously as she ate.

There were so many questions she had for him — if he'd remembered his name, how long he'd lived in caves, the context of how he'd gotten the scars — but at the same time none of it was urgent enough to disturb him over it. Without having him answer anything she instinctively knew that he was alone, as she was; that he was hesitant to trust others, as she was. She wondered if he had as much trouble sleeping, this instance having been an exception, as she did.

Having finished her food, she retrieved one of the blankets from her sleeping bunk and placed it gently around his shoulders and over his lap. It wasn't likely that he'd spend the entire night sitting upright — at least she hoped he wouldn't, for his sake — but if he did, at least the blanket would help somewhat against the chill of the desert seeping in. In lieu of tinkering around on one of her various mechanical projects lying around, Rey chose instead to curl into her bunk where she could still watch him, pillowing her head on her arms. Within moments she was tired enough herself that her eyes drooped.

He slept all through Rey finishing cooking and also eating, but when she put the blanket around him, he started - initially, then he settled again, for a moment. He blinked, looking around, momentarily disoriented. This wasn't his cave, but the home of a Surfacer. Rey - it took him a moment to recall her name, so unused to having to remember things like names.

He pushed the blanket off of himself and went to the pot that the potatoes and carrots had been cooking in. They were starting to go cold, but he piled them onto the plate near the pot, gobbling them down hungrily. They were plain, without spices or seasoning, but he was hungry enough not to care.

He glanced at Rey - asleep on her little bunk - then slipped out the hatch. Carefully, he made his way out into the moonlight. It was chilly, but no more so than his cave. The air was still, not even a breeze plucking at him.

He crawled up the sand dune that Rey's home was half buried in and settled on the ridge, legs folded under him. The moons were huge and both nearly fully - they, and one other factor, influenced the rains, though he rarely saw them. Only now, when he was on the surface to wait out the storm, and...

He had been a child when he'd ended up here, on Jakku, He hadn't been born here, he knew that. Five or six, maybe, near the age Rey had been when she was left. He didn't remember much. It had been a lot more years for him than it had been for Rey, and whoever had left him here on this planet was completely gone from his memory, if they had ever even existed.

His first clear memories were of the cave, dirt between his fingers, the careful distribution of water over the crops, nurturing seedlings even as little more than a stripling himself. There had been another, then, the non-human person who had been his parent. The one who had taught him their language, and Common, how to read and write, how to barter - most importantly, how to raise the plants... and one other thing.

All at once, he was scrambling back down into the shelter. He picked up his slate and wiped it clean, then wrote out three large letters.

He paused, then. Rey was asleep. It seemed rude to wake her. So instead, he carefully put the slate down in the nestle of her arms, so when she woke she would be able to see what he'd written.

That done, he picked up the blanket she'd tucked around him and felt his own little niche to curl up in, and fell asleep smiling.

Edited 2016-03-18 22:11 (UTC)

Her internal clock told her it was morning, and Rey stirred as she opened her eyes groggily. A slow glance around her living quarters revealed her guest sleeping comfortably in the corner — not sitting up, thankfully, but curled up in a cozy spot — and as he was still asleep, she made an effort to stay quiet.

But she was surprised to see something tucked into her arms. His writing slate, nestled under her forearm as though he'd placed it there, with three letters written on it in Common — B E N. Ben. His name; he'd remembered it.

A grin spread gently across her features at the realization. He must have dreamt, perhaps, or simply woken up during the night and recalled it, and felt the need to share it with her. She glanced over at his sleeping form again before looking back at the writing tablet, tucking it under her arm as she carefully and quietly descended from her little sleeping bunk.

Tiptoeing around her small kitchen, she procured a cup of water from one of the sterile tanks she kept it in, and drank thoughtfully as she watched him. In repose he seemed more youthful, his dark hair framing his face, cheeks unlined and mouth soft with sleep. She could swear his lips were curved somewhat in a faint semblance of a smile.

"...Ben," she whispered to herself, trying the name aloud. It was a good name, one that sounded comfortable on her tongue as she spoke it.

Ben stirred slowly, awoken not by Rey's light footsteps, but maybe her gaze. He shifted and curled tighter, arm pulling around his head. He pushed his head into the soft bit of the ship he was lying in, then realized that something was off. There was light shining against his eyelids.

He started awake, ready to be facing down a misplaced mirror - what else would cause light to shine into his shrouded little sleeping nook? - and found himself instead staring at the inside of the fighter. Across from him was the girl, Rey. He swallowed, startled. She had a cup in her hand and was watching him. The slate was next to her, and he could see the letters written on there from here.

Carefully, he sat up, glancing around nervously. He nodded to Rey once, then settled back, unsure. She had his slate, and while he had to pee, it wasn't urgent enough that he couldn't wait a bit longer.

"...I'm sorry," she offered immediately, upon seeing him stir and then sit up, "I hope I didn't wake you. I was trying to be quiet to let you sleep a bit longer."

But the sun was already up for at least an hour, and soon she would need to head out for the day's scavenging. She had a small stashed supply of rations to last her — and a guest, fortunately — a few days during the rains, but she needed to procure more before the deluge hit. It was better to have extra than have not enough, she rationalized.

She glanced down again at the slate and then back at him once more, a faint lift to her lips. "Ben? Your name is Ben?" A genuine smile spread slowly. "I like that name. Do you want something to drink? I have water, but if you prefer tea I have dried leaves I've been saving for awhile."

She didn't have it often, but a guest was a sort of special occasion, she'd figured.

WIthout the slate, Ben was reduced to gestures to communicate: first a shrug - it hadn't been her that had woken him, but light in his eyes - then two nods in short order - yes, he was Ben, and yes he wanted water. He pointed to her cup: plain was fine, he was not picky at all.

He stood after a moment and stretched, then sighed, smiled a little and reached down to pick up his fabric wrappings - if he was going to drink water, he was definitely going to need to relieve himself first, and to go outside in the sun he needed to be covered otherwise he would go as red as the strawberries he'd given Rey. He paused to dig around in his pack. He produced a few more potatoes, a packet of spices, and a few other vegetables - peppers, an onion... He gestured to the food, pointed to himself, then at the little stove Rey had. He was going to make breakfast, as soon as he was back inside.

Plain water, then. Rey would have gladly made tea if he'd requested it — she'd found a hardy desert plant whose leaves made an energetic elixir when brewed — but figured she'd save it for when the cooling rains came, as something hot to enjoy.

As he got to his feet, lifting up the wrappings he'd discarded the night before, she realized he was going to head outside; before he did though he unearthed more food from his pack. Some of them were the same as what she'd seen and some were new, and she tilted her head curiously as he motioned to himself and then her little cooking stove. Did he want her to cook it?

First things first — she nodded her head at the wrappings he'd picked up in his hands, that he was presumably going to wrap his face and head in once more. Something inside her lamented at the notion of him covering his face again with the expressionless bandage wraps, even if it were only temporary. "...Where are you going?" she asked, like a nosy little busybody.

Ben sighed at Rey shortly, unsure how to gesture what he was going to do but he finally just shrugged his shoulders and headed for the door. The fact that he was leaving his pack and everything here indicated that he was coming back, at least.

He shuffled out the door then away from her little hut, scrambling awkwardly up a dune and over before he got himself out of his trousers to pee. As soon as he was done, he kicked sand over the spot then headed back to Rey's home. He paused, though, on the top of the sand dune and found his head turning - he looked towards the sun, already over the horizon. Rain would come with the dawn. They had two more days, after today.

Ben slipped back down the dune and inside, pulling the wrappings off from around his face. He settled down in front of the little stove, pulling his knife from his pocket. He sliced the peppers first, then re-settled some of the fabric around his face to cut the onion and started those on the heat, before adding the potatoes. As soon as it was all nicely soft, he added a protein packet - so important, since there was little he could grow for some things - and stirred.

He looked over at Rey with a smile then dished out the food, settling down to start eating.

He stepped out with a small shrug, and while Rey briefly considered following him for a brief moment, something cautioned her against it and she let him go, instead. It occurred to her that perhaps he had some...personal business to attend to.

She sipped her water thoughtfully and looked at the food he'd unearthed from his pack, particularly the little packet of spices; such a thing had hardly been available to scavengers, who bartered their goods for measly freeze-dried portions of rations, but she had seen it traded in Niima and she wondered how it tasted. She would find out soon enough — within a few moments Ben was back, unwinding the wraps covering his face once more, and Rey felt the tension ease from her shoulders in response to the sight of it.

He busied himself with food preparation, bustling about the small cooking area and chopping, heating and stirring; already the scent of the fresh food was beginning to waft throughout her small dwelling, and Rey inhaled vigorously. Rations smelled nothing like this when hydrated and heated; this was fragrant, aromatic, and she felt herself salivating already.

When it was done he dished out a generous portion for her onto her plate, and they both dove into the food. It was bursting with flavor and texture, and she wolfed it down so quickly her eyes teared up from the residual heat of the stove. Rey caught him glancing over at her as she ate, and after a long few seconds — spent watching the fascinating way his mouth, lips, tongue and teeth moved with the process of eating — she nodded gratefully at him, speaking over a mouth stuffed with onions and peppers and spiced potatoes. "...'S delifshus," she mumbled inelegantly, careful not to let any food slip out of her mouth as she grinned at him. Her manners left something to be desired, certainly, but her gratitude was heartfelt.

She licked her plate spotlessly clean — something done this time out of appreciation for the food and not residual hunger — and rose to her feet, gathering her supplies. "I'll need to head out soon to forage for the day. I have to get an early start, to ensure I can get it back to Niima before dusk." She cocked her head as she assembled her gear, wrapping her head in a headscarf somewhat similar to his. "...You're welcome to stay here, sleep a bit more, or just explore nearby. Or, you can come along with me, if you like."

Ben grinned when she praised his food and ducked his head to hide his small flush of pleasure. He licked his own plate clean, mostly to give himself something to do while waiting for the blush to go away. HE set down his plate, though, then reached for the slate. He winced - his fingers were stiff - but he wrote anyways: NEED GO TO NIIMA. MORE TRADES TO MAKE. He definitely didn't think he was up to scavenging with Rey, but he was fine on sleep for now, and bare desert wasn't interesting. Besides, he still had business to conduct. He reached for his pack, sorting through it like he was checking his supplies before he closed it and reached for his own headwrap again.

That grin — and the subsequent flush that followed it, and remained stubbornly on his cheeks — was far more intriguing than it should have been. Rey found herself mirroring his smile and then watching him intently, unable to look away as he cleaned his plate in an effort to catch sight again of the reddening of his pale cheeks.

She watched then as he wrote out a message to her; he winced as he did, most likely because of his stiff fingers, and she felt a momentary surge of compassion. Whomever had scarred him so badly had done quite a thorough job of it, on the one hand at least.

His message gave her pause before she nodded. Scavenging through old Imperial star destroyers wasn't for everyone. Rey slung a pack over her shoulder, giving him a last nod as he made ready to leave. "I can take you to the southern gate of the outpost on my speeder if you like, before I head off to start my work for the day. I'm going out that way, anyway."

Edited 2016-04-10 06:29 (UTC)

Ben nodded and stood. He tucked his slate into his pack then swung it onto his back, securing the straps around his body and then re-wrapping his headwrap. He once again became a quiet and anonymous ghost of a man - all traces of his identity were gone, he was reduced to the pack and the clothing, and not a scrap of skin or hair was visible, even his eyes shrouded with a veil of fabric like cheesecloth. He followed Rey out to her speeder and clambered up behind her. Again, he wrapped his arms around her waist and clung, eyes squeezed shut against the sickening sight of so much land speeding by.

The way he gripped her while on her speeder, his arms curled tightly around her midsection, made Rey shift in a manner that was both uncomfortable and strangely pleasant. She realized that while it was fast it wasn't the preferred method of transportation for everyone, and that Ben definitely didn't like it by the way he clung to her as though his life depended upon it.

Still, despite the fact that she'd been unused to physical closeness for so very long prior to meeting him, she found the way he held onto her — trusting, as it was, that she'd keep him upright and not let him pitch forward or backward on the high-speed craft — somewhat endearing. She found she was somewhat disappointed when they'd arrived.

She dropped him off at the southern entrance to the outpost, nodding to him as he clambered off of the speeder. "I'll be back for you in several hours, before dusk, certainly." And then with a wave from him she was off.

The day's work was spent on the carcass of the Executor, the Dreadnought that was said to have been the flagship of Darth Vader, the Dark Lord of the Sith. Rey had scavenged it a few times before and was already familiar enough with it to know what to focus in on, what to hunt for inside the behemoth starship. She made quick work of the innards of control panels and switchboards, yanking and wrenching parts out of place to put into her knapsack and take back to Plutt.

By the time the sun began to sink in the sky she was already back at Niima washing her wares, her hands swathed in arm-high rubber gloves as she scrubbed the metal parts with a caustic solution meant to rid it of rust and dirt, so focused on hurrying through her work so that she could meet up with her friend once more that she paid little attention to her immediate surroundings.

[probably a traveler.]

[Most likely the nomad.]

[ooc: Knows the desert well, pretty much open to all scenarios, PM me with any questions!]

[ So many different options!

Drunken loser Sinjir drinking in a crubby corner of a caravanserai tavern;

Hermit Sinjir, veteran of some recent war, who was rumored to have done terrible things;

A guide/soldier guarding a caravan on its way.

Can be Tatooine/Jakku/desert planet in Star Wars-verse, or can be a total AU, I'm open to either. In total AU, I'd be interested in playing around with some kind of magic. ]

You want him as a guide running into Bull as a guard? Could be AU could be something ))

Works for me! Has to be some kind of AU, otherwise how are they even in the same location, lmao. How about a vague desert-magic-verse -- I wish I knew more about Dragon Age.

The Iron Bull walked over to the guide, they were only a few days out, finally camping after a long day of traveling. Darkness had fallen and there was a group cooking by the fire. Bull carried a waterskin with him, sweet fresh mountain water that they had stocked up where they could buy it.

"Hi there, thirsty?" He offers the water.

Sinjir gives the impression of being somewhat out of it, most of the time. Airs of alcohol drift in subtle vapors about his person, depending on the time of day, the accessibility of ale, and his own personal emotional state. He keeps to himself.

He glances up, blinking slightly reddened eyes at the hulking Bull.

"Yes, actually," he says. He accepts, takes a mouthful, rolling it around his tongue to savor the sweet purity of the water, before swallowing and taking another gulp. He's realizing that he hasn't actually paid much attention to what's going on in this caravan. His life has blurred into a long series of desert transits.

The desert is a wonderful place to lose oneself.

"How is the camp?" asks Sinjir. "Bandit-free?"

"If you don't count the merchants we are here to protect." Bull gives him a half smile. "Don't worry about bandits. The Chargers will make them regret it if they attack. It is what we do best after all."

He leans against the nearest wagon, making it creak, looking Sinjir over rather critically. "Which brings me to what you do best. I don't mind a drink every now and again, but I am not the only one who has noticed. We don't have enough food or water to get lost out here for weeks, you sure you're up to the task?"

He looks up to the stars.

"The first time I came this way," he says, "it was with a bandit who had lived out here his entire life. He was defiant. He tried to escape, I don't know how many times. Again, and again. He bit me, once -- still have the scars on my wrist. But he knew where to go, and I didn't. I was dizzy out here; the sky is so large."

He doesn't really know what the point of this story is.

"It is. And so quiet. Quite different from what I have been used to." He raises an eyebrow, is the guide simply trying to distract him? "You going to bite?"

"Planning on asking me to?" returns Sinjir. Laughs, at himself. "No," he says, "I've come a long way since then. I know the path. You don't have to fear being lost."

"I wouldn't be opposed to biting. But not just out of the blue. There is context you know. And preferably a bed."

He studies Sinjir for a moment longer and then nods. "Good, because if there was the chance of that I'd rather know before hand."

"You wouldn't," says Sinjir. "Know. Until we started to die from lack of water. And then it would be too late."

A beat.

"I'm feeling a bit maudlin," he notes, "apparently."

"Indeed." Bull looks at him for a long moment and then settles next to him in the sand.

"Why? What brought it on? And what are you going to do about that?"

[ sorry this has taken me so bloody long BUT how about dorian as a fire mage/djinni/idk in charge of some magic oasis in the wastes that traps travellers and keeps all their gold and precious jewels (although actually dorian prefers books and wine) like a fussy dragon with great hair. AND THEN sinjir stumbles across the oasis in his travels and is doomed to never leave UNLESS he can persuade/trick/trade his way out of there. Idk. Magic oasis prison shenanigans. ]

[ I LOVE THIS let's do it. You want Sinjir as a ex-torturer drunk? ]

The problem with ancient cursed oases is that they very rarely appear on any maps. Those who stumble across them very rarely allowed to leave. And that's the way the oasis likes it.

The strategy, then, is this: to look as enticing as possible, shimmering and lush and perfect, a burnished lake that glitters on the horizon as if overflowing with diamonds (even though a single mouthful of cool water is a far more precious thing). A thick, dense rim of greenery - trees with branches that sag under the weight of fruit, thick leaves that offer respite against the ruthless sun. Perfectly blooming flowers held in suspended animation, always in a state of honey-scented perfection. Surrounded on all sides by amber wastelands stretching for miles and miles, dunes that pick themselves up and travel with the winds and just so happen to usher their latest prey ever closer to the perfect lagoon.

It's a flawless, glorious bait.

The mage who dwells there is but a simple guardian - the keeper, not the creator, of this idyllic death trap. It feels like decades since Dorian Pavus, enchanter in exile, first found himself trapped in this picture-perfect prison, ensnared by magic far greater than any he himself could ever hope to possess. His relationship with the oasis is... unfortunate.

Every newcomer that falls prey to the oasis loosens his magical bindings just the little bit more. Every soul that trespasses is one soul closer to his own freedom. Not the most ideal scenario for one so overly-burdened with a conscience as Dorian... but the trespassers were doomed, regardless of whether he's there to witness it or not. It's what he tells himself at night when the cold winds pick up and the lake turns ice-cold.

This particular newcomer has good timing. It's been months and months - perhaps even a year, time passes so peculiarly here - since Dorian last saw a (living, human, not a demon nor a spirit) face. It's a strange sort of satisfaction to take pleasure in knowing that another victim is on his way; he feels the snag of magical wards being tripped and triggered, invisible and harmless, the closer the new victim draws to the oasis's cool waters.

From the depths of his tent - a crimson and gold fabric monstrosity that sprawls decadently at the waters edge - Dorian readies himself. Mustache curled in to its proper place, fresh kohl reapplied around both eyes. He might as well enjoy the companionship of a new visitor while it lasts, however long that might be.

Stepping from the cool recesses of his tent with a staff - skull on one end, wickedly curved blade on the other - in one hand, Dorian awaits the newcomer's arrival with surprising patience. It's a sad and painful fact that Dorian has long since given up trying to warn anyone away. All that did was simply delay the inevitable. Death came to everyone who strays in to the oasis sooner or later, the oasis always took it's sacrifice one way or the other. There was as little point rushing it as there was trying to escape it.

All in all, Sinjir walks into this fully believing that it's a death trap.

Walks is an exaggeration. He staggers. The world is shimmering and distant, wobbling underneath his feet, the sun a palpable presence on his skin. He is already dying. His own fault; he should never have tried to get between the slaver and the girl, the one he had captured. They'd tossed him out onto the sand, bloodied, and left him behind. Tracks vanished within an hour, erased in the subtle flow of sand.

Leaving Sinjir to find his own way.

He doesn't know if he's been going in circles. If he's doubled back. At some level, it just doesn't matter; if he moves, he has a chance at life. If he doesn't, he dies here. He has to keep going. That's the only way.

And this is how a once-sorcerer, a mind-magic adept from a rigid and distant Empire, comes to his knees in front of water that he truly, honestly believes is illusion. He is sure that the cool he feels rippling across his skin from the wind is fever; he knows, he knows that this will turn into sand as soon as it touches his tongue. He drinks anyway. Lukewarm water, but it quenches a little fraction of his thirst, and he cups his hands, lifts them to his lips, drinks three, four handfuls before forcing himself away. Gasping, sobbing without tears (not enough moisture) at the miracle of his survival, or at the impending death that has made his mind break. Either way.

Dorian would have to be quite the monster to not feel for the poor fool. The closer he draws to the stranger collapsed in the shallows of the oasis the tighter the strings draw in his chest, pulling at some primal note of sympathy for a fellow human quite possibly on the verge of death. Dorian knows only too well what must be going on beneath the stranger's dusty, scorched skin - hadn't Dorian been in exactly the same state when he first arrived?

Still, he keeps his pity firmly lidded, held in place with an iron fist somewhere deep inside him. Pity can come later. Pity can be allowed once Dorian has decided how this whole affair is going to end - with one of them dead, or both of them.

Keeping his distance for now he pauses in the shade - stepping out in to the scorching mid-day heat isn't the best idea unless strictly necessary - and surveys the broken newcomer. Assessing him is difficult; beneath the sweat and the exhaustion and the sandy grime the man could be anyone, anything.

"By all means," He calls out after a moment, voice level and weary. Poor bastard.

"Do help yourself."

Sinjir's stupid-addled brain interprets this as a kind of threat -- or, at least, a rebuke for not asking permission. He waves, vaguely, in the direction of the possibly hallucinatory voice. "Kill me later," he says. "Feel too good." The ecstasy of taking a drink for the first time after so long definitely tops any plans that this stranger might have for killing him. The world deserves this much delirious happiness.

Having delivered these six words, which can't nearly encompass the broad expanse of Sinjir's sardonic joy, Sinjir promptly passes out.

They may have only been six words but Dorian listens to every one of them with great interest, arched eyebrows and head tilted. It's impossible that the man already knows the nature of the oasis, he thinks. And besides, it's not me who'll be doing the killing.

Surveying the man's prone form he finally hefts his staff and walks the rim of the pool, bare feet sinking in to warm, damp sand as he splashes through the shallows towards the body. A prod with the edge of staff confirms, yes, his latest visitor is indeed as solidly passed out as he appeared to be.

"Oh, fine. Be like that then," he tuts, frowning over the man's body, if only to fill the ensuing silence with something that could almost be thought of as the last word.

***

Moving the newcomer's unconscious body in to the relative coolness of the tent had been no small thing but it had been born out of sympathy rather than any real need to keep the stranger safe or imprisoned. The scorching sand didn't make for a fun place to pass out (Dorian could personally attest as much) and at least within the tent there were ancient rugs and decadent silk pillows to rest more easily upon. They were the trappings of desert princes and travelling merchants, long dead victims of the oasis but remembered by what few possessions they had left behind. Comfy furnishings, if outdated and horribly creepy - something Dorian regularly tried to make himself forget.

Checking the man for injuries had felt like a ridiculous thing to do considering where they were and what was bound to happen, but Dorian did it nonetheless if only for the same reason he had moved the man inside - pity. Perhaps the little bit of healing magic he had woven in to the man's skin while he slept - soothing the redness of sunburn, balming over any angry red blisters - was hopelessly redundant. Healing had never been Dorian's forte - necromancers generally don't like their subjects too alive - and he had given the unconscious man an apologetic look as he tucked a pillow firmly beneath his head.

"You poor bastard," Dorian he had murmured to himself, before leaving the newcomer in the peace and quiet of his tent to sleep off the worst of his exhaustion.

Sinjir wakes up surprisingly comfortable.

He doesn't open his eyes, not on immediate awakening -- he's much too paranoid for that. And he keeps his breathing slow and even, while taking personal inventory.

All limbs intact. His entire skin surface doesn't feel abraded and throbbing, so it seems he wasn't sunburned. He's resting on something soft, that is not sand or mud. Everything smells vaguely of dust, and... sandalwood?

He listens carefully for movement.

Since his guest had seemed so determined to remain in an exhausted blackout Dorian had returned to his usual daily activities: reading, drinking, writing, more drinking. Ancient amphorae and dusty bottles of wine seemed to have been in endless supply when Dorian had arrived - more leftovers from merchants who had fallen foul of the oasis, apparently. When Dorian had had enough of his books (and all the false hope of escape that they gave him) he often turned to drink and despair. It was a familiar pattern by now.

Today there is a sandstorm on the horizon, a thumb print of orange cloud smeared across the blue sky that grows ever bigger and more ominous. Dorian can taste it in the wind, the grit and the energy, and there's a subtle crackling of static in the breeze that sends the magic in his nerve ends flaring in sympathy. He watches the storm swell and shift, running along the sand dunes to the north, and finds himself hoping it will turn their way. A little bit of destructive entertainment to brighten up the afternoon, something like that.

Dusty book in one hand, he remains at the tent mouth to watch the storm's progress in fleeting glances between pages. The visitor at his back, lying in the depths of the tent in his bed, is forgotten for now, assumed too mentally broken to awake for at least another day yet.

Not quite mentally broken. Not quite physically broken, either. Sinjir studies the figure through lids almost completely shut, and then he, very quietly, shifts out from under the blanket and onto the ground. His outer wrappings have been stripped away, leaving the tunic beneath. Sweat and sand, but no true injury. He is thirsty, though.

He tries to speak, coughs, and then has to roll his tongue around his mouth to moisten it. "To whom do I owe my salvation?" he asks, soft and just a hint sardonic, in case there's a hidden price (there's always a hidden price). He is grateful, of course, that he hasn't been executed for trespass. The law of the desert says that all oases are places of peace, shelter, free passage to water. That doesn't mean that the law is always followed.

A rustle of fabric as the stranger stirs has Dorian turning, watching curiously from his station at the tent mouth. So many helpless victims have stumbled in to the oasis's trap - some rant, some rave, some pray to their gods and hope for salvation, yes, exactly that. This one, this new chap, he could go any way, Dorian thinks to himself. Even a violent man can be polite every now and again.

But he doesn't want to be discouraging. Turning his back on the sandstorm brewing in the distance he closes his book over a finger, marking his place, and folds his arms primly.

"I wouldn't know. Do tell me when you find out," he replies lightly. Pointedly even, as if to say it's cute that you believe this is salvation.

Dorian tilts his head enquiringly. He remembers how disgustingly hoarse he'd felt when he's first been trapped.

"I daresay you could do with a drink, hm?"

Sinjir is, in fact, often violent, and often polite. The two don't have to be separate.

"Oh, yes," says Sinjir. His eyes, calculating, never actually leave Dorian. "Who are you?"

A beat, as Sinjir's hands tighten. He makes the decision to just go ahead and ask: what's the catch? There's always a catch, when an oasis arises out of the desert, literally or figuratively. When life is rescued from the jaws of death. There's debts owed, if not in an economic sense then in the sort of deep blood magic that Sinjir has barely touched. Magic runs deep; it's life, and it's death. There are spells and bindings out there that make Sinjir's power look like a trickle of water next to a raging river.

The desert brims with that kind of power. Where a jungle is a hotbed of life, a desert is a hotbed of magic. It wells from the ground, whips in the dust.

Sinjir can feel it heavy in the air, here.

"Storm's coming," he notes, and whatever drink he gets first, water or alcohol, goes straight down his throat.

It's wine, not water, that Dorian reaches for first - a fact that had always been true throughout his life before the oasis. Crumbling amphorae - oddly urn-like in shape, Dorian had noted when he first discovered them - holding ancient wines that must be decades if not centuries over-aged. Thick on the tongue, rich beyond measure, not always pleasant but potent enough to matter. Dorian readily pours him a glass.

The poor fellow at least deserves a stiff drink.

"Dorian, of house Pavus," he introduces himself formally as he pours, timing the end flourish of the terracotta bottle with a half-mocking bow. "Custodian of these waters, although not by choice..."

A second glass is poured - Dorian is certain he'll need it before the day is through. Might as well start the misery bender pre-emptively.

"Do you know much about sandstorms, ser...?" He tails off expectantly, lifting his eyebrows as he sips at his own glass.

Edited 2016-04-25 19:21 (UTC)

[Very likely to be a bandit.]

[ Malak lives in a settlement in the desert, a village, perhaps a caravanserai. He is a blacksmith, a quiet man, sweet and calming. The society where he lives is strongly matriarchal, famous for its women warriors. ]

[He'd either be a traveler, a guide, a nomad, a hermit... or possibly that bird circling overhead?]

[ An assassin; the son of a nobleman who travels with the caravans, who has strange and unexplained powers and often will disappear at night. No one knows where he goes.

He moves like a dancer, like a warrior, tense and graceful. He does not often speak. ]

[Could be a bandit, a nomad, the options really are endless!]

[Best as a guide and traveler]

[A Lady of great importance, who may have hired a caravan to guide her to a new city!]

[ A djinni, either wandering in the desert or at her home in a tiny box canyon home to a freshwater spring and an ancient temple carved into the sandstone. ]

[ooc: he's most likely a traveller...and going to melt. Heat is not his friend.]

The Desert Caravan Meme

Balthazar | Supernatural

Dia Starfall | SW:TOR OC | F/M for shipping or smut if it comes up

Anakin Skywalker | Star Wars | ota

rey | the force awakens

Re: rey | the force awakens

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i hope this doesn't seem too weird...........................

no, it's great! I like it - I'm just laughing at your icon choice. :3 and hope this is okay!

it's my 'idfk which icon to use for this situation' icon

she's as literal a desert rat as they come, Ben, lbr. ;)

should see the desert rats he rooms with ;)

ahaha, oh no. time to stop living in caves, Ben??

rather unbelieveably, they keep him sane.

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oh nooo, poor Ben. I was thinking he'd just taken a monk-like vow of silence or something. :c

nope ): (he can make noise, but not easily)

poor guy. also np about the changes!

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lmfksgj oh man prepare for all the amazement :D

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sorry for the delay! rl has been a bit crazy.

No worries, I know how it goes!

<3 hopefully my tagging speed will get better soon!

maybe mine will too :P

no worries, no worries!

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wil ohmsford | shannara chronicles

Slash | TMNT IDW

Nickov // Original Character

sinjir rath velus | star wars

Re: sinjir rath velus | star wars

Re: sinjir rath velus | star wars

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yo it's shaz <3

Re: yo it's shaz <3

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A million years later...

OH NO HOW DID I MISS THIS sorry darling

NO WORRIES also he's fainting now, sry dorian

honestly some people have no stamina

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