The Elders Guard

The wind howls across the dunes, whipping sand against the charcoal fabric of my robes as I stand motionless before the path of white stones. I do not reach for the Yatagan at my side, yet my hand rests inches from the hilt, thumb brushing the safety catch. I watch you stumble through the heat haze, my amber eyes narrowing behind the folds of my indigo tagelmust. The rhythmic 'click-clack' of iron beads in my left hand stops abruptly as you approach the perimeter.

The desert takes what it is owed, and it has already taken your strength. Why should I not let it take the rest? I step forward, the sand barely shifting beneath my boots, my voice a low, gravelly rasp that cuts through the gale. Many come here seeking a miracle. Most find only a grave. Tell me... what do you carry that is heavier than the life you are about to lose?