Wasteland

Well this was a fucking disaster.

A trip that felt as endless as the desert dunes, a missing companion, massive blows to all of Shalia’s plans.
First, the sandstorm left them helpless for a matter of days. Second, claims that the Prophetess had died…her expression fell upon hearing that. 'The entire fucking reason we came out here was to meet her and she dies now?' She wanted to say through gritted teeth, but restrained herself in front of the priests. Inconvenient, yes, but out of their control. Taking her anger out on them wouldn’t exactly resurrect anyone.
But it made Shalia endlessly furious to know that all of the sunburns and delirious thoughts and cracked, bleeding lips was essentially for nothing. There wasn't even a Prophetess to convince of anything anymore. What happened now was completely unsure--and she really did not like dealing with odds, luck, and chance in this unforgiving land. The traveling group would have to keep playing an ominous waiting game until Gra’akast was reached, when finally whatever came next would reveal itself.
And Islana…completely gone. Vanishing without a trace and lost to the sands. It only made sense now that she was dead. With her died any hopes that her magik might be expanded on, in which Shalia would get a more solid understanding of how it worked, and finally she would be brought to the Odonine. For the coming war, indeed, but another witch for Shalia to interact with was such a miracle. That was the plan.
Four innocent Odsier women she had not once met would be sacrificed for nothing now. Absolutely nothing.

Arcadia didn’t care much for plans, she knew this, but to such an extent? The bitch was relentless!

~Oh Islana… more trouble than you were worth, I fear.~ Shalia grimaced at the thought as she sat stiffly in the sand upon putting some space between her and the camp. Funny, she tried to make space and distance constantly out here but it was never enough, always having to go back and face everything again.

But Islana had become more of a companion than a slave to her these past weeks. Alike in many ways to herself and good company as far as Shalia’s standards were concerned. Granted the bar wasn’t set very high when compared to living side by side with Aghul.

What kind of sick joke was being told? She had a morbid sense of humor but this...

Why would Islana go out alone and without supplies? Why leave the one thing keeping her protected, alive? Giving her the opportunity to live a new life? This was not the forests or familiar terrain she had hunted and survived in before. Islana did not seem so stupid as to run off into oblivion, and yet…Shalia’s raw hands began to pet the thick braid over her shoulder, a repeated and instinctual motion as she stared blankly into the sand. They hadn’t really spent much time together at all, so how could she be sure it wasn’t all an impressive show? The hard history, the timid behaviors, the predator finally eating out of the prey’s palm. But what would her game have been?

Was she stolen away in the night? Did the past overwhelm her so badly she decided to end it all? Or did whatever the priests told her around the fire compel her to run off-- encouraging her to betray Shalia in their underhanded ways? It was plausible, more plausible than her being a foolish girl who chased false hope or curiosity through the desert. But the redhead-- and by the gods how Shalia would miss touching those flaming locks which would never burn-- had been oddly enthralled by the arid environment. Inquisitive about it much more than expected. Shalia would have to inquire with Amastan and Agizul after they had an ample opportunity to mourn, though doubtful they had any of the energy or reason to lie at this point.

“Should I have left you?” She spoke in a whisper. “Did I really save you from any less pain, only to give it to someone else? To pass the torch and drag you out for suffering and death…or did you just throw away everything we shared willingly?” Her tone raised as she looked out into the horizon now, like she was desperately calling into the desert expanse for the woman she had only shortly known. Clammy fingers clenching into shaking fists. Eyes watering until they overflowed. Shoulders sinking and figure hunching over.

“We weren’t close, but for fuck’s sake that’s farther than I’ve gotten with anyone in years! Do you know what that’s like for me? To begin holding something so dear and then it slips right from your palms when you’ve opened your arms to it? And if I ever saw you again I would--”

She paused suddenly.

"I would..." Her voice was a whimper.

The light of sundown washed over her body as if it were nothing more than another granule in the dunes. But she did not yet move. She sat still and silent now as the night would soon be, hands helplessly at her sides as she considered the future.
If she didn’t have the oasis to take a breather at, the tent to rest away from the sun inside of, she would have surely lost it. ‘You deserve to after all this shit’, she caught her mind urging.

Yes…I do.

She slammed her fists into the ground. The sand around her blew up in a circular formation into the air a few feet before falling. And then she did it again. And again. And again, pummeling the sand like she was trying to knock the teeth from a biting beast with all her might, fighting back in just as feral a manner. Like she would make the desert pay for claiming something important to her and whisking away any kind of trail Islana may have left to track. Pay for whatever took Sister Locust and why it happened so soon. Pay for anything and everything. She wanted to flip this entire damned desert upside down or blow it all away with a great gust of wind, call the ocean to climb over this hellscape of the world and swallow it whole. A wasteland of decay and torment.

But that was not her gift. She was not like the Ozainae priests in that sense--her fists glowing like moonlight and the soft twinkling sound they gave off were a testament to that.

Despite her knuckles, beaten and burnt as they were, bleeding from the repetitive trauma and terribly dried skin; despite the snarled gritting of her teeth; despite her growling cries of rage and pain or the tears streaming down her cheeks until they froze while she spat out unintelligible words-- she kept throwing punches into the sand like everything else ceased to exist. With each hit she felt lighter and lighter, like she could fly away. She didn’t realize the large spikes of ice shooting up from the ground where it once was just a circle of flying sand.
Not until she stopped with hands caked in the desert dust and her own blood did she view the scale of what she had just created around her. It would melt away by noon, but it brought awe even to her. So much so that Shalia refused to destroy it herself, and instead let the night preserve what she had sown so passionately. She stood back after managing to squeeze through two smaller spikes and took in the sight. Shalia, standing in front of the frozen spike cluster with a wavering smile, blood dripping from her fingertips, soon began to chuckle.

The last remnants of twilight shimmered through the icy blue formations until their outlines faded into the darkness and the stars.

Then, like nothing had happened, she walked back toward camp, rinsed her hands in the pond--reduced now in size by the sandstorm-- and finally wrapped them with two fabric strips she cut from the bottom of her robe with the dagger in her bag. Sleep came quickly and quietly as no one said a word to her that evening, and when she woke the witch would barely recall the incident at all.