Location: Southern Hotlands, not far from the Kankaro Sky Caves.
They'd traveled for a few breaks into the rising of the sun. Mercifully the winds had died down, ceasing the lash of glassy sands kicked up by the whorls of flowing air. Demda maintained her mask and goggles, not wanting to take a chance, and sparing her skin from the burning sun. After a while, the suns began rising higher over Luesco's wall in the distance, their orange glow growing lighter and more oppressive. It was time to make camp. They, fortunately, found a large rock jutting from the flowing sands of the Hotlands, which they pitched their tents against.
The tents were tied flat across the land, each propped up against a singular bamboo pole with its corners tied down by smaller rocks they'd found scattered here or there. Demda rummaged through the filthy sack that held the meat of the wolf, it's brains, and the leather bladder that contained its still warm blood.
She pulled down her mask from her nose, uncorked the bladder, and took a smell. She nearly gagged at the strength of the scent of the wolf's blood. She didn't think it would be good to drink, or eat, even after boiling. Besides, she didn't have the camping know-how. That was more the province of Dimza.
He approached her after they'd erected their shelters, and settled their animals against the shadows of the large rock. He jerked his finger toward the bladder she held, as well as the messy sack full of meat, and brains wrapped in lambskin. He licked his lips. "Dear girl, I will trade you. A few drams of water, and a share of the meat we'll dry on a line... I'll show you how to make brain soup, with herbs and brown date sugar... Very delicious."
Demda quirked a brow beneath her face mask and held out the bladder for him. "I'm not su... Well... Alright?" She almost forgot who she was speaking to. If he wanted to spoil his stomach with such rancid ingredients, it wasn't her problem. She judged that they were within a day's ride of the Kankaro Sky Caves, their destination. If he fell out of the saddle in that time, she'd still be able to navigate the rest of the way on her own. Not that she was convinced he'd fall prey to food poisoning, but the smell of the blood and the mess of meat and brains in lambskin didn't convince her that he'd be able to fashion an edible meal out of it.
In the end, she agreed, trying to feign reluctance. But he gave her a knowing stare. He could tell she had little choice, and probably no inclination to try the meal herself, of course.
Thus they began tying a bit of twine between the top of the bamboo poles that propped up their tents. Allowing that the sun would dry the wolf meat on both sides before twelve breaks passed. Demda would eat, something. Plus she still had some preserved meals from the farms to the south that she'd traded with along the way.
She'd be alright, so long as he made good on his promise of a few drams of water.
Demda was very skeptical of the man’s ability to turn the wolf byproducts into something resembling an edible portion of food. Much less something anyone would describe as ‘delicious’. But then, Dimza had surprised her before in other ways. Surprised with his cruel disregard for life, his wisdom born from years of survival in the desert, and his pragmatic ability to shift his demeanor based on the situation or the person he was talking to. One benefit of being seen as nobody important by Dimza, Demda supposed, was that she was treated to the true face of the man. A cruel, callous, and callow rogue that had only the virtue of survival in mind.
Still, he wasn’t without any talent. The man had a great mind for business and value. Not to mention that, but he also was a fair hand at fieldcraft. While the meals he whipped up for the camp were anything but luxurious, they were edible. Yes, that at least could be said.
So after Demda set up the strips of wolf meat she’d torn from their pursuer of the past day along the line between their tents, she took a seat by his campfire, fueled by camel dung, horse apples, and what little wood she was willing to spare from her own bundles, gathered and barted for from Athart’s Jungle, and the Emerald Scimitar to the south.
He carefully poured the blood within the bladder into the kettle, making sure not to dump it, so as to avoid spoiling it with the fats and grease that had congealed upon the surface. After about a bit, the blood was in the kettle, and he began taking bits of dried brains from the lambskin she’d wrapped it up in. These were added like so many bits of solid meat to the soup, and then add to that were several herbs that Demda wasn’t entirely familiar with.
Dimza explained to her when he saw her looking at the greens. ”Basil and other herbs. Freshens the soup and gives it a hearty taste.” She did recognize the date sugar that he added into it, ground up brown powder that he sifted into it in generous portions. Finally, this all done, he set the kettle onto the tripod, above the fiery horse apples and other assorted fuels, and waited for it to begin a boil.
While waiting, they were silent for a time. However, the kettle took more than a few bits to bring to a boil, and so Dimza turned his eyes up at Demda, and spoke, ”You know, it’s ill luck to kill a lone wolf out in the desert.”
Demda’s green eyes met his glance, and she almost felt like scoffing. What new superstition was he unveiling now? This didn’t have the same flavor as his other little nuggets of ‘desert wisdom’.
”It’s worse luck to let it nip at your horse or camel’s knees as you’re riding along.” She said, pleased with the pragmatism of her reasoning.
That ought to have been the end of it, but Dimza smirked, and went on, ”Aye, but there be more than wolves out here, in the southeastern Hotlands. Not far from here? A ruin called Skarr, where the famous assassins of Skarr Kol, witch-blades that take the form of beasts and men. They are said to avenge any loss to their numbers… To kill a lone wolf, out for a hunt? Most of our wolves travel in packs, you know. That was likely one of the Skarr Kol.”
Demda’s smile thinned noticeably at that. She didn’t believe him. This had more of the air of a fanciful tale told to scare children than any actual warning against danger. ”If it takes so little effort, and such a poor shot and slow rider to evade and snuff out a Skarr Kol assassin, then I’m not the least bit convinced of their strength. Save your tales…”
Dimza turned his head to spit over his shoulder and then shook his head with a wry smile at her blithe disregard of his warning. ”Tis true, but sometimes these assassins, these shapeshifters, they forget what they are. They forget not only their strength, their true forms, they forget that they are supposed to be men and mages. They fail to remember even what it takes to survive. Magic is a mixed blessing and curse to these assassins. Sometimes spending so long in one form, that they cannot find their way back to any resemblance of what they ought to be.”
He turned his head to look off in the direction of where the Sky Caves would be. Then he sighed, ”There are many lone strays, bitches and casa nova wolves lingering in the Sky Caves. Best leave them their lives, if they try and follow. These lone scavengers are no threat at any rate. They are clever enough that they will only attack when it’s too late. When you’re already all but dead.” He cackled with all his heart as the kettle began whistling.
The soup was ready, and the smoke had already rose high into the sky from their campfire. Demda sighed. It’d be a small miracle of any nearby rogues didn’t go to investigate their camp. She would take the first watch, while Dimza ate his meal, and then promptly slept it off.
