Desert Rose

[Alistair]

He wasn't a fan of sand; and even less of the wind that blew it up to his face. It made him think of the village he once lived in; and that wasn't something Alistair liked doing. The sand here in this place; made him long for the thicker air and trees of his homeland. He was not ready to travel there; doubted he ever would be. Yet here in this vast land where there was not a single tree for miles and miles; He thought of that village.

The he thought of the blood.

No; he would not be returning to that. Three days ago he had been working a job; where he was hired for his skill with a dagger only. The dreams had started. He knew how the job would end. Taking what he needed; he had left with no word of warning. Now he was wondering the sand dunes; and trying to get his barrings. Years of hunting; tracking; and learning to read the signs of the world--meant nothing when the wind blew the sands and everything changed before your eyes.

Alistair was lost. Bloody damned sand.

It all would not be so bad if not for the overly fond of words companion that followed him from the job. The man had sought to fill the silence left by Alistair. Constant talking; that never ended.

[Tag: Mirela. It's a song by Sting.]

[Mirela Athalia]

The air was still, the heat nearly unbearable as the flaming sun was at its peak. But this was the lifestyle they were accustomed to. Which worked in their favor. And against those who crossed their boundaries. Like right now. They were prepared, never unaware of travelers that roamed their land. If the scorching sun did not claim their lives, then their fate would rest in the tribe's hands. Two wanderers had crossed their boundary lines and they had to gain their positions.

Waiting for the opportune moment, the exact point that would grant them the greatest advantage and maximize their clever strategic plan. Lying still, they waited and waited... until the two foreigners were in position. In a sudden motion, men leaped from deep within the sand, having used the resource as their concealment. They surrounded the two men, enclosing them in a perfect circle as their blades were pulled and their darkened robes and foreign attire was dripping with grains of sand. The men looked surprised yet this came as no surprise to the attackers.

One of the outsiders, swung his sword, foolishly in the height of surprise and in the end, his life was swiftly claimed by one of the men's curved blade that slit his throat as easily as one may have sliced a piece of paper. All points of their blades were drawn to the single survivor, daring him to move forward and attack any one of them. For he was massively outnumbered, and each warrior was confident enough to know that no single man was a match for the group of a dozen of them.

[Alistair]

Alistair was walking a few feet ahead of the one who was talking; and before he could glare the man again; while wishing the sun would burn his mind away faster--the ground spit out men at them. Alistair was used to knowing when men were close; and how to handle himself in battle; however he had not even felt that there were men below his feet!

He pulled his daggers from their place upon his back; but his companion was dead before he could even have them to hand. He had taken a few steps back; and a few steps to one side as if seeking a place to exit the center of the field and better find his ground but there was none.

He stopped moving and stood int he center of the men; then flipped the daggers over so he held the blades and held them out to the men; knowing when it was time to stand down or end up like the other. When one reached for his daggers; he pulled them slowly closer to him. They were not his only weapon; but nor would he hand them over to just anyone. Only after staring the man down for a moment; did he allow his weapons to be taken.

[Mirela Athalia]

The men all watched him intently, waiting for him to make a move that would either be his last. Or one that may grant him more moments of his life. Even if it was still temporarily. For they had no intention of letting him be on his way. Not after the hostility that they had shown. The men made the wiser decision to hold his daggers in a motion of surrender. It was culturally universal, and it was well comprehended by the warriors. Once any act of surrender was given, then they knew what would be next. Take him as a prisoner. A couple of the men cautiously stepped forward, still distrusting of the man.

They slowly extended their hands, while the other gripped the handle of their swords tightly. Then, they took his weapons, and simultaneously, two men from behind covered his eyes with a blindfold. But it was not enough. In addition to the blindfold, they placed a thick sack over his head, and words of a foreign language were exchanged. He was thrown onto a horse, and the thundering of horse's hooves, slightly muted by the softness of the sand they rode on, filled the otherwise silent air. When they arrived at their camp, they grabbed the man off the horse and led him to a tent, where he was thrown inside, and his hands bound on the pole that held the tent up.

They ensured the knots were tight, even if it burned through his wrists. Then, they left him. For hours, no one returned. After the passage of a few hours, a man;s voice could be heard as he entered the tent. He pulled the back and blindfold off the man and just stared at him, before exiting the tent, offering no words to the stranger. Only that gesture. Only a few minutes later, a woman entered. A woman, carrying a tray of food with a pitcher of water and a cup on it. Mirela gracefully entered the tent, stepping inside with ease and no fear. A kind smile on her lips.

"Greetings," she said, her voice laced with her accent. "I do apologize for the poor treatment you have suffered," Was she truly sorry? Not really. Because this was not new to them or her. It was practically protocol. She stepped closer toward him, moving to rest on her knees as she positioned herself in front of the man. Seeing him closely, she studied his features. Strong, handsome, and very far away from home. "My name is Mirela. I come with food and drink for you," she said to him, gesturing to the tray before her eyes met his lighter colored ones.

[Alistair]

Alistair was not fond of the blindfold; and even less of the mask. Yet to claim he was not fond of being left wearing both for an extending amount of time was an understatement. He would shift slowly; trying to see what he could feel without giving away to anyone that might be watching--though he hear nothing. After their sand trickery he did not trust his normal methods.

Finally both were pulled from him; as he was abandoned again. He took the time he was alone to get a map of the room; and look for a way to cut his bindings. Rope he could handle; while tight he had learned to tense up his arms so that when bound the rope would be tight but when he let himself relax the rope would not be so. They had bound him too tightly for the rope to be slipped over his wrist; but he had enough room that he could still feel his hands. Allow them to work.

He had yet to find a weapon when another entered. A girl. There was something unsettling about this. Dozens of men hide and attack; yet they send a woman to him? She spoke of food and water; poison. That was their goal? Alistair said nothing; moved not an inch; barley even blinked as she watched him and he her. How foolish they were to leave such a small creature alone with him; a man trained to harm.