In Medias Res

The horizon, to Lynia, was a reminder of how far she'd come, for no matter which direction she looked, she could see nothing of her kingdom. Not a single landmark or point of reference could be found, and the constant haze made it quite difficult to even see the nearest sand dune. Lynia sat upon the sand, hot as it was from the constant sun, and peered at the sky. //The sun would be much better to navigate by if it would just stop moving.// Her view was full of nothing but sky; the sun looked to be flying circles around her. She tried to stand again, supporting herself on the ornate quarterstaff which was the only thing she carried, but merely tripped and fell on her face. //Then I shall crawl,// she declared, but hardly managed a few feet up the dune before collapsing again. Lynia inhaled a sharp, ragged breath, only managing to remind herself how badly she was in need of water.

Everything about this excursion was badly planned. Lynia, not having ever left the protective confines of Upper Caynea save for a few trips, simply had not thought about the perils that lay outside the city wall. Neither ferocious beasts nor angry brigands had appeared; what did her in was a simple lack of hydration. And yet, all she had thought to bring with her was a simple flask of water and the heirloom quarterstaff that she had taken from the Royal Treasury. The flask had been empty for a while - the precise amount of time was not something she knew or cared about - and the staff was little more than a walking stick to her now. Lynia rolled on her back, looking back at the sky again. //This is what I wanted, isn't it? I wanted my father to worry about me more than his pointless war, and worry, he shall, if I've perished to this heat. I just wish I'd managed to do anything of use before expiring...//

Lynia felt a sleep-like urge come over her. Tired, she was, but sleep meant nothing. As her body grew heavy, she no longer felt a need to stand and walk. //This is it, I suppose,// she thought to herself, shortly before losing consciousness.

But the feeling did not last long - or at least, Lynia was not aware of it lasting. It felt like only a short time had passed, but soon, she once again became aware of the heat on her body, and a stinging sensation on her face. Though she made a valiant effort to open her eyes, the blinding light from above made this quite difficult, so she held them shut instead. The stinging sensation returned, but now she felt more aware of it making a sound, sort of the same sound she remembered hearing at royal court, as her father had slapped the petitioning merchant.

The slapping sound came again, with another sting on her face. "Ow," she declared through her dusty mouth.

"You're awake." The young man, clad in leathers that were obviously crafted for practicality over fashion, says it as if he's been waiting forever. "You were moaning in your sleep...I hardly blame you, though. You've been out in the sun so long that I'm amazed you haven't caught the desert fever."

"Th...tha..." Lynia cannot even finish her first word without entering into a coughing fit. Grains of sand spray from her mouth, into a feebly raised hand. The man, perhaps anticipating it, stands off to the side, holding a small canteen that he offers as soon as Lynia has finished coughing. She greedily snatches it from his hand.

"Hey, whoa there. Take it slow. Don't drink too....fast...."

She quaffs the water fast enough that she nearly chokes on that as well, but the drink is enough to clear her throat. "I'm sorry," she finally says with some difficulty.

The man feels Lynia's forehead with the back of a hand; she jumps slightly, unused to the touch. "The temperature's gone down, at least, so you haven't caught anything...you're just exhausted. I'll probably ask you later why you were trying to cross the Caynean desert on foot, but for now, let's start with something easier." He stands as straight as he can, then bows elaborately. "My name is Bren. My people call me Wagonmaster."

Lynia ponders for a moment; this Wagonmaster may or may not be one of her father's agents. "L-Lyssie. My name...is Lyssie."

"Lyssie?" Bren appears slightly puzzled as he takes a seat on a small stool near the futon. "That's an unusual name for someone like you." He crosses one leg over the other. "But you know, the desert is an unkind mistress to those who aren't prepared. Is there some reason why you were out there on your own?"

"I..."

"You don't need to tell me what it is. I just want to know if you had something in mind."

"The oasis," she replies at last. "Had to get...to the oasis." She coughs some more, reminding her to take another drink from the quickly-depleting canteen.

"Bad choice, this time of year. I hear those Rigan barbarians attacked it again recently. My wagons tend to avoid the area if they can help it."

"Rigans? That's not what I heard from..." She stops herself short. "Er...where are you headed next?"

"I'm not sure we're going your way, milady. We're headed back to Lower Caynea; festival time is soon, and our dancing troupe tends to make the most money then."

"Back to...Caynea? I can't go back to Caynea!" She tries to sit up in the futon, accidentally falling back down and almost dropping the canteen. "I need to leave!"

"If you've got some kind of bounty on you, I can assure you we'll have no part of that. I'm not going to sell you out, but I'm not going to aid and abet, either. But I doubt that's what your problem is."

"Well, I..."

"Joining us is one thing, but we have our own schedule and our own destinations in mind. You'd need to be someone very important indeed if you wanted to influence that."

Lynia shudders a bit in the bed. "Oh, no..."

"But let's be honest with ourselves. If you truly have a strong reason to not return to Caynea, I can't possibly live with myself if I just throw you back to the desert, especially not with all the bloody vagrants and barbarians out there at night. But there's another reason why I can't do that to you, and it has to do with that name you gave me."

"What's wrong with my name?"

"Well, that's an easy one: it isn't yours."

This page is pretty unfinished. Weasel plans to get to it eventually. Probably.