Dahin Chronicles - Book One - Edin Sea

The long and scorching sands of the Ridsun Desert were vast and endless. The dunes seemed to fight Ishvalo almost like the waves of an ocean. And as he swam through that ocean, he fought not to drown. Such fate may be his last. For all he knew, the black fire—the plague that is Nakoa—may swallow him whole. Or worse, change him. 

That was all he could remember, that and his name. He knew not where he came from, what he was searching for, why he was here—and he hadn’t a clue what the Nakoa truly was!

But he knew one thing. He knew how it killed, how it ate away at the spirit and broke the laws of continuity. He knew how it left the victim only a ruined husk. Yes. That he remembered.

The Nakoa, it burned through the plating, through the tissue of its victims. It burned them so very deep, peeling away at their flesh, melting their bone, rotting their epidermis and pulling their veins, slowly replacing the shallow slop of a body with a deathly shadow of sickness and fire.

Luckily, he hadn’t seen any Tiki infected with that plague in miles. He was reassured.

Ishvalo slowed his trek along the Ridsun Desert, he felt the sky grow tired. Tired like himself.

Ishvalo draped his wooden legs across the sand, barely walking. He brushed the weed and sand off his bone plated face and antlers. With only a touch of energy left, he made a stop at what seemed to be a fallen temple.

He saw very little at the gates of said temple, all but a few small critters, Irahi. They were lying on the ground, lifeless, resting until the world’s remaining energy blessed them to come back.

Today was their lucky day.

Ishvalo kneeled, reaching his hand toward the small constructs. A thin mesh of glowing, pearl-white energy hugged the Irahi. They woke up.

That seemed to wake Ishvalo up enough, too. He regained the power it took to keep his eyes open.

Ishvalo sighed, looked around the ruins, and saw carvings, tablets, paintings with constructs and creatures. Things like... him?

Standing, just slightly obscured by dust and sand, was a painting with a tall, bone and bark plated construct much like himself. The same four-fingered hands. The same face. The same two, gazing eyes, backwards-pointing horns, and bone-plated mask. And even the Sunstone—the one thing that brought him here, brought him anywhere—was carved above.

He tilted his head.

His chest: the beating gem in his chest began to warm up. His clawed hands ran like wind, and he felt this strange sense of something he hated, something telling him he did wrong, something telling him he failed.

And something telling him he was failed.

There was another familiar face. It was too blocked to see clearly, but something was recognizable. He touched the tablet, gently.

Then he heard a crack.

It was to his left.

He pulled out a tall, razor-sharp pike. That spear pointed at another being. Another, smaller person. His spear met face to face with a Tiki Gatherer, or so he assumed.

This Tiki held both hands in front of him, eyes wide, and his head ever so barely pointed upwards. His leg tapped the ground.

“Your name. Tell me,” Ishvalo carried a smooth, quiet voice with a hushed echo as if there were two of him. He continued, “without moving.”

“Weapons are not needed, Ta, I come in peace.” He smiled, keeping his leg still. He put his hands down. “My name is Matao. I am just a historian. I was searching for this temple.”

“Reason?” Ishvalo removed his spear, head tilted.

The Tiki lit up. His hands pointed generally at the ruins. He spoke as much with his hands as he did with his voice. “Well, this temple is one of the remains of the ancient times!” Matao smiled from one eye to the other.

There was an awkward pause. They could even hear the small Irahi chirping.

“You do know the legends, correct?” More silence as his hands lowered once again. Matao resumed his queries, “You aren’t from here, are you?”

Ishvalo nodded in some noncommittal direction which Matao did not understand. The tall construct, he couldn’t remember. He pondered. Maybe some memory would come to him? But nothing came. Not a single memory. He could not think of where he came from.

“No?” Matao lowered his posture, he spoke. “Would you happen to be looking for something?”

Ishvalo was quiet for several moments. Then he spoke. “Yes. Why?”

“Because, Ta, we may have a common goal.” He sighed, “I wish to find a city.”

Ishvalo, his curiosity jumped. He may know. “What city?”

Matao continued, barely audible, “I wish to find the Lost City of Endrahi.”

It was true. This common Tiki, he was after the same place Ishvalo was. Maybe for other reasons, but the fact of that matter was they did have a common goal.

And so, on Morrow’s Eve, a deal was made.