It was when her empathetic touch had yet to truly awaken.
One life had brought her to travel through the endless red dunes of the Zer Zuran Desert, in search of one who could pass to her the knowledge and art of geokinesis, control over the earthen element.
Tales told of a sentient serpentine beast who resided in the oasis Zer Zura, one who was rumored to carry an innate affinity for earth, able to manipulate sand as easily as one breathed.
According to lore, the serpent lay waste to Zer Zura. In a single turn of the sun, the once bustling city was ablaze with fire and screams, their once famous night markets alight a last time in an inferno that burned so hot the very air scorched and the sand became a bright ooze of melted glass that incinerated all. The dying screams were smothered by the infernal's smoke as the ash clogged and burned the lungs of those unfortunate souls that still carried on.
Such was the massacre and utter devastation that brought low the once prosperous Zer Zurians.
Yet that wasn't the last of it. In the stories, the monster was said to have ripped his victims apart, the ground they stood on turning against them as spikes shot forth from every direction and ruptured their bodies, the very sands of Zer Zura drinking so deeply of blood that centuries later the sand remained steeped in a dark crimson.
Tales continued to tell of the inhuman bodies heaped upon bodies that drifted to the kingdoms downstream, speaking of mutilated horrors, melted flesh, and scorched bone. So many in fact, that the rivers ran red with blood and the banks ashen with sickness. Reeds withered, and the corpses fed naught but the plague bringers.
And yet that was not the worst of it.
Those that tried to reach Zer Zura in the aftermath were stopped by an overwhelming residual heat that seemed only to grow as the red of the sand grew deeper, as if the very desert itself possessed with vengeance and tainted with malice.
Sometimes, a scarce piece of unblemished glass, so crystalline and pure, would surface. All the better to show the macabre gore that they dormant forever within. A moment in history, preserved and rendered in such clarity.
One almost wished for the glass to have developed cloudy.
Shyloris shuddered as she recalled the piece that the shady trader had shown her. It had taken her a long moment to realize what lay within, and that only made it all the more chilling.
Such innocent and beautiful glass.
And such a sinister capsule.
The color of the sand had slowly changed as she traversed the desert. Their light medley of tan beige and browns slowly darkening. Though she made a point not to formulate presumptions, it was hard not to, seeing the unsettling sea of maroon.
It all appeared unnatural.
Even more so as she pressed on, and it was after much, though that was a story for another time, that she came upon a city built upon glass foundation. And it was at the oasis that she met the one dubbed Milès the Red.
In the abandoned city, he slumbered, and roused by sounds he hadn't heard in more seasonal interims than he could measure.
Closing his eyes he saw the city, now still and devoid of life. Gentle pulses and reverberations rumbled in the Northern quadrant of the city, and he scoured the cityscape. Sure enough he found her. A mere child walking where no sentient had stepped foot in centuries.
Shyloris turned her eyes upwards from the eerily quiet city, up at the high strung lengths of cordage, lined with rags that may once have been flags or other banner of sorts. The light festive colors now but grey tatters, eroded away by sun and rain.
It was him who sought her out and came before her. His appearance surprised her and he led the child to the innermost sanctum where he resided, relishing in her awe at his spinning. He took great pride in his craft.
The child clamored with excitement and tried to converse with him. Almost-words that seemed familiar, but made infuriatingly little sense, as if on the brink of thought. Several times he thought he sensed her presence in mind, yet upon reaching out through the aether, felt nothing.
She traced the murals gingerly, and gazed appreciatively at the stream that had been directed to flow through the large dome.
Over the many years it was necessary to redirect the river as the original stream filled in over the course of time. That there was another with whom to share the sight filled him with an unfamiliar yet nostalgic warmth. One which he couldn't truly recall.
Still he was restless, scattered memories of aeons past flashing prominently in his mind.
He saw the fire, the smoke, the heavy smell of fresh blood and burning flesh. Somehow, it was lonely, even more so as he stood there, watching her explore and inspect his various possessions.
Some time of wandering and the child slowly gravitated back to him. She reached her hands out for him and puzzled, he awkwardly extended a hand back.
Was she trying to greet him? The time for salutations were long past.
To his surprise she grasped his hand, turning the appendage over in her own, Shyloris dragged her finger pads softly across his palm.
Then he felt it. In a moment he latched on to the aetherical signature and the door to their mind was thrown open, thoughts flowing forth like an opened dam.
What wonderful paintings, so much color, so much life. Not like the rest of the city so withered. What happened to the the rest of Zer Zura's inhabitants? This is Zer Zura right?
Many thoughts and more whispered into his mind in a low din, a much welcomed chorus. The spark of life, the thriving mind of a sentient so full of thoughts, so bright and colorful.
The city, the people, where did they go? Who is this, why is he here alone? His hands are cold. What is he doing here alone?
For a moment he reveled, privy to all of her stream of thoughts, memories, the idle poking and prodding of emotions, and revelations.
Until he singled out a lone thought.
-he doesn't look dangerous.
A thought soon banished.
Dangerous. In a spur of bitter resentment his hand gripped her's tighter than intended.
"Really now?" his tone amused. Would she accept the fear that drove so many others away?
Her amazement at understanding the foreign tongue was lost upon his visage.
When she looked up again, his eyes were bleeding red, the color dripping from his irises and staining what was once a pristine shawl, rising in red mist.
Perturbed, the incarnate took a couple steps back before breaking out in a flat out sprint. The brunette hadn't been able to sense any killing intent, and it unnerved her.
Behind her, she heard the rustling, the sand hissing as it surged forth in a crimson tide.
Somehow, letting it ensnare her didn't seem too pleasant a prospective.
Throwing herself around a corner, Shyloris dodged a low hanging branch of a fig tree, the un-pruned branches overgrown and scratching at her exposed skin as she rushed by. In an attempt to lose her pursuer, she dodged into another alley and darted around the corner.
Only to be met with crimson.
"Cruor. Though some know me as Milès the Red."
His words were lost to the time-locked child, for before her eyes his body grew serpentine, bones and joints popping with a sickening crunch as they rearranged themselves. Sangre's body elongate as vertebrae multiplied, the skin of his new body darkening and becoming rigid, taking on a sleek and glossy sheen. The skin of his face hardened, and a patch on his forehead and nosebridge likewise darkened with a protective plate of keratin as a nictitating membrane slotted over his eyes, which itself became like ocelli.
Yet there was more to come.
In a grotesque rupture of skin and clothes, did another set of limbs protrude from his torso.
Sangre grinned at the brunette, and as she watched in transfixed horror, a row of millipede legs unfurled from the underside of his new carapace, almost alien, the way they moved.
"So tell me, do you find me dangerous now?"
The crimson sand slithered around him, the particles moving swiftly and effortlessly.
When Shyloris didn't answer, Sangre gave her a mocking grin that was both resigned and bitter.
And then she understood, contrite eyes rising to meet that of the therianthrope's. Despite being empathically inclined, the incarnate's abilities were far from honed. Nonetheless she chastised herself for jumping to conclusions.
"Both sentient and beasts alike fear what they don't understand. To many I am but a monster."
Shyloris couldn't speak, ashamed of having failed to notice earlier.
Tentatively she reached out and took his hand in her's once more, turning it over and stroking it lightly with her fingers. The incarnate could feel Sangre watching her as she did.
"Your hands are cold." she murmured, before placing it against her cheek.
Sangre felt her content, the cold of his skin a moment's respite from the heat. And it was as much a relief to her as it was to him. The child didn't fear him.
Silas awoke with a start and glanced around the room, groaning inaudibly at the odd hours of darkness before sunrise.
Not again.
It seemed all too common for him to wake before daylight.
There was a more audible groan and the sounds of blankets rustling as Neiro shifted on the other bed, a moment passed before a muddled voice whispered loudly, "Silas? 's that you?"
"Yes." he squinted through the dark at his flatmate, "Go back to sleep Neiro."
There was an incomprehensible muttering as the albino rolled over off the bed and trudged over.
"In your own bed!"
Neiro promptly ignored him and crawled in, "You woke me up. And you have a bigger pillow."
Making a noise of indignation, Silas obstinately refused to give the blanket, remaining impassive to the poking and prodding.
His attempts to fend off and discourage his roommate failed and Neiro lumped up beside him on the bed, "G' night Silas."
Grumbling under his breath, the man sighed and yielded half his blanket, ignoring the smug smile Neiro was sporting.
As he was drifting off, he scowled. Something about the dream he had tickled at him, like a forgotten memory in the back of his mind or a word on his tongue. Nie tangible, yet not quite there.
A quick sketch and color highlight of
Sangre clothed in the Zer Zurian style
and partially morphed. Milès is spoken
with the French pronunciation. (Motyxia sequoiae)
Snippets and Stories
