The Desert Caravan Meme

[toastysocks]

The Desert Caravan Meme




The sky is unimaginably large. Infinity as a pale, blinding blue, never a cloud. Your eyes always sting from the sand and from the bright, painful light.

This is the desert. It is the desert that lives in poetry: the shifting, formless sea of white and gold and red, in slow, sinking dune-waves. This is the desert of scorched cliffs and ancient stone; it is the desert of vast, eternal wind, bringing the bite of grit to bare skin. Sun's heat untempered by mercy and parched land flickering with false hope of oasis.

This is the desert of legend: the desert that hides prophets tucked in endless emptiness, where djinnis whisper on the winds and magic wells from the sands themselves. This is the land that can trap you and drain you, of memory, of past, of weakness; the land that secrets treasure away in caves and holds salvation in hidden water. This is the land that bakes you and cures you, lets the soft clay of your soul shape into something new.

The desert is a place forever between, broken with paths, sliced and scarred for the sake of trade. But the desert is a place itself, too, home for the nomads, the caravanserai, the dotted strips of live eked out of the dry. Home to the snakes and the birds and the twisted, thorny scrub, the camels and the horses.

It will seduce you with the rapture of quiet, the beauty of an emptiness that is never truly empty. But it will deceive you, too: a mountain days away that seems close enough to touch; a camp close enough to hear, but hidden in a fold of the dunes. If you lose your way, you could die of thirst an arms length from salvation. Dunes shift; paths bend. If you do not know the desert, it will kill you.

Who are you?
A traveler, trusting in the grace of a guide to bring your caravan safe to the other side;
A guide, walking by stars and distant hills through the land you know by heart;
One belonging to a caravanserai, an enclave of the desert, by precious water, gleaning a living from the harsh land and the travelers passing through;
A bandit, preying on the slow, plodding merchants;
A nomad, with the desert in your blood, watching the intruders pass through;
A hermit, solitary and empty, grown accustomed to the silence;
Or a creature of magic: a djinni, a sorcerer, a witch, a prophet?

What has happened?
An ordinary, exhausting day of travel, your mouth dry as dust?
Have you lost your way, straying, along and baking in the sun?
A raid by bandits, to take money, goods — people?
War, over territory? Over water?
Strangers arriving in the caravanserai?
Happening upon a celebration, of life, water, harvest?
A rainstorm, for the first time in years? A sandstorm, deadly, and far more common?
Or something else?

from here

Comments

Sherlock Holmes | BBC Sherlock | m/m

[desecrated]

[[ooc: during hiatus, on a case, or historical AU is fine]]

Yes Man | Fallout New Vegas

[cantsayno]

[Friendly killer robot, here, more than happy to guide you through the desert or into a sandstorm.]

Rider | Fate/zero

[hellenization]

(Best used as a guide.)

Sadira | Aladdin TV Series / OUAT AU | OTA

[dunequixote]

Adrian Ivashkov | Vampire Academy/Bloodlines Series | OTA

[ivashkinator]

Khayman | The Vampire Chronicles | OTA

[foolofthegods]

Minoru - OC - OTA

[itmeanstruth]

[A traveling Sage with snakelike powers.]

Alfred F. jones | Hetalia

[heroiccia]

[Going to either be a guide or a traveler.]

elika | prince of persia (2008)

[ormazd]

[ It's time she saw what lies beyond the end of that canyon. ]

Steve Rogers | MCU

[no_you_move]

[open to AU all the way, cross-canon, cross-medium welcome]

post ultron?

[greenscientist]

Bruce, or rather Hulk, seemed to have made good his escape. The small aircraft had been piloted over the Arabian desert till it ran out of fuel and crash landed. The nomads in that area had seen the streak across the sky and the resulting fireball, making sure to avoid that area as much as possible.

From the crash site, there are large footprints that leave it, running deeper into the desert on their own. It takes awhile but gradually they slow to a walk and grow smaller and smaller till they lead up to Bruce passed out face down in a sand dune. In the middle of nowhere.

sounds good!

[no_you_move]

Natasha doesn't go. That's - complicated. And neither does Tony. Because frankly Steve doesn't tell him when they catch the fragmented signal from the crashing jet and make the best guess they can about what's happened. Steve goes. Because its his call to make. And because he thinks he's the only one that both stands a chance if the green guy is active and pissed -

and because Steve thinks he's the only one that will back off, really back off, if Bruce ends up honestly wanting to be alone again.

Steve isn't sure the man does though. So he goes when he hears about the signal and he gets dropped so he's alone at the crash site and he tracks the footprints that lead away, have vanished in the sand and wind. It's hot as an anvil - but Steve, who's secretly never lost the feeling of ice over his bones, isn't entirely upset by that.

When he sees the fallen body though, he winces. Because there's no way Bruce isn't going to feel that. Steve puts himself in the sunlight so he can cast a shadow over the fallen man, small relief but he gives it, not taking off his pack yet. His touch isn't hesitant but it is gentle when it lands on the bare shoulder.

"Bruce? Hey. This is a bad spot for a nap, buddy."

[greenscientist]

Bruce is still pretty out of it, mumbling something in his sleep about flying before shifting slightly as if turning over to go back to sleep. Though it was obvious his back was going to be more tanned than his front for a good long while.

Elmer C. Albatross | Baccano! | OTA

[mrhappyend]

[a traveler who'll inevitably be treated as a creature of magic]

Napoleon Solo | The Man from UNCLE

[napoleon_solo]

[modern or classic available.]

Re: Napoleon Solo | The Man from UNCLE

[red_peril]

Classic. I will be your directionaly challenged guide.

[napoleon_solo]

It was hot in the Arabian desert. Really Napoleon didn't expect it to be anything less. He mopped his brow with a handkerchief, having only gotten off the plane a few hours ago and been driven into the main town by taxicab. He hadn't yet changed his suit, looking out of place in this setting, but he was here with a cover as a tourist anyway.

There were quite a few camels 'parked' nearby. Napoleon walked over, suitcase in hand, to tap the nearest driver on the shoulder. "Excuse me," he said, switching to some broken arabic, "You guide me through desert? Yes?"

[red_peril]

The man in the traditional white dress, to reflect the desert heat and keep the wearer cool, turned to regard the traveller with familiar and bemused blue eyes, "As-salāmu ʿalaykum. Hawl alwaqt aldhy wasal." Peace be with you. About time you arrived.

[napoleon_solo]

His surprise gives way to a look that says he should have guessed Illya would show up here like this. Mr. Waverly must have sent him ahead to scout the area. "Sorry, I was delayed." Translation being someone tried to follow him to the airport. But he had lost that particular Thrush agent, tying them up with customs while he made his getaway.

His mission, or rather their mission, was to track down a secret base somewhere in the Arabian desert. The general area was known but not the specifics. Or what was going on at the base. Napoleon casts a glance up and down the street before slipping Illya the map hidden between two bills of money. "The Seat of the Desert Birds, you know of it?"

[red_peril]

That really needed no translation. THRUSH might be expecting them at some point. "I have heard of it," he took the money and the folded map. Not that he needed it. "I have made acquaintance of a man who knows where it is." He signalled another man over. "This my friend, Mohamed Halid Couscous."

The man was shorter than Illya and much older. He regarded Solo through half moon spectacles sitting on his nose. "As-salāmu ʿalaykum."

"Mohamed, you will have to forgive my friend, Solo. He is not as familiar with the customs of your people as am I," Illya explained in flawless Arabic. He switched back to English for Solo, "We have clothes and supplies. You should probably go into the tent there and change into something a little less conspicuous and a lot more comfortable in this heat."

[napoleon_solo]

Solo bows slightly, greeting him in kind. His Arabic wasn't as smooth as Illya's but it got him by. He looks down at his suit ruefully. "Not exactly what the locals are wearing this year, is it?" Solo preferred a suit, but in this heat, Illya was absolutely right.

A few minutes later, Solo has a black robe on, tying a white headdress on as he steps out of the tent. Eyeing a man across the street who he is certain has been there since he arrived. Might be Thrush, might not. It paid to be observant in this business.

He strolls over to the camels again. "Where's the keys?" he asks, tongue in cheek.

[red_peril]

Smiling, Illya hands him a riding crop and signals the camel to kneel. The animal got down on it's knees so that Solo could mount it's saddle. "Go easy on the crop, she spits when she's unhappy," he warned.

[napoleon_solo]

Solo gives the camel an affectionate pat on the neck before mounting. Keeping his voice low, "Seen the merchant across the street? Striped robe, smoking his third cigarette?"

[red_peril]

"Yes. I did notice him," Illya said, signalling Mohamed over. "That man, there, do you know him?" he asked quietly.

Mohamed glanced at him over Illya's shoulder, "No. That is my brother-in-law, Assam's fruit stand. That is not Assam. Would you like me to arrange a distraction for him?"

[napoleon_solo]

"Thrush sure gets around these days," Solo comments as he adjusts himself in the saddle. He had thought they would at least have a days start on them this time.

"If you're able to, that would be," he starts before the man holds out a hand expectantly. "...great." Figures. He gives Illya a look that says you and your friends as he finds a coin to pay the man.