By Eitros Tixe, Friend of the Tari, Former Templar of Abalach-Re

Two days of travel under the relentless Athasian sun had left me weary but determined. As the jagged horizon gave way to rolling dunes and sparse vegetation, I finally saw it: Rocky Hill, the supposed haven for fleeing templars. Relief began to loosen the knot of fear in my chest…but that feeling quickly soured.

Thick columns of black smoke were rising from the direction of the village, twisting ominously against the clear sky. The acrid stench of burning wood and flesh reached me even before the scene came into view.

Something was wrong.

Cresting a ridge, I saw the devastation below. The village was in ruins: its meager defenses were shattered, and the cries of its people echoed faintly across the barren land. Fires raged unchecked, consuming homes and granaries.

In the chaos, I spotted men clad in ragged armor and bloodstained scarves. They moved with a brutal efficiency, herding the survivors like beasts of burden. Some villagers were shackled, beaten into submission, while others were dragged away to waiting wagons. The templars who had sought refuge there fared far worse: their bodies lay strewn across the ground, lifeless and broken.

It was my first encounter with the infamous Nawab Javed of the Burning Sands, though at the time, I did not yet know his name. What I did know was that his mercenaries, savage and ruthless, were on the hunt.

Among the raiders were men who carried themselves with more precision, their armor better maintained, their movements deliberate: House M’ke agents, the symbol of their allegiance boldly displayed on their robes. They were the ones directing the carnage, gesturing toward certain houses and wagons from which mercenaries would emerge carrying crates and sacks full of artifacts, magical objects, and anything else of value that fleeing templars might have brought with them. House M’ke had summoned this storm, enlisting Javed’s brutal men to take the village and ensure the retrieval of the treasures hidden within.

Only later would I learn the full scope of their cruelty: every inhabitant of Rocky Hill who had not been slaughtered was sold into slavery. What treasures House M’ke could not use, Javed’s men took for their own, looting and pillaging with unrestrained glee.

My heart sank as I took in the carnage. Turning my kank, I prepared to retreat, but the sound of raised voices behind me made my blood run cold.

“Hey! There’s another one up there!”

A shout. Then another.

I glanced back to see three riders breaking off from the chaos below, mounted on sleek kanks and bearing the insignia of House M’ke. Their expressions were hard and eager as they began their pursuit, raising spears and calling to one another in harsh tones.

Their mounts were fast, faster than I had expected. The riders were skilled, their movements coordinated. Panic rose in my chest as I spurred my own mount, urging it to flee. The ridge and dunes offered some cover, but not enough.

Glancing over my shoulder, I saw them closing in, their voices carrying over the hot wind.

“Nowhere to run, templar!” one called out, laughing cruelly.

Their confidence was not misplaced. My three pursuers fanned out, herding me into a tightening circle. My kank stumbled as I tried to maneuver, the soft sand betraying its footing.

Within moments, I was surrounded.

The three riders drew their weapons; two carried spears while the third, a battle-scarred mul, carried a bone sword that gleamed dully in the sunlight. They urged their kanks closer, their beasts clicking and hissing as they eyed me hungrily.

“Thought ya could get away, huh?” the swordsman sneered, his voice thick with contempt.

My kank shifted nervously beneath me, sensing the danger. I gripped the reins tightly as my mind raced for a plan. I had no weapon, no allies, and nowhere to flee.

The swordsman tilted his head, smirking. “House M’ke thanks you for your…cooperation.” He raised his sword, the situation looked dire.

“Ya’ve got nowhere to go, and we’ve got all day to gut ya.”

His words were punctuated by the sharp whistle of a spear cutting through the air. I barely had time to react before it struck my kank’s flank, embedding itself deep into the creature’s carapace. My mount screeched and stumbled, nearly throwing me off as I struggled to keep hold of the reins; ichor seeped from the wound, mixing with the hot sand below.

Another spear flew, this one piercing my waterskin. A sharp hiss escaped as the precious liquid spilled out, vanishing into the thirsty earth. My heart sank: they did not intend to finish me quickly; a slow, painful death in the desert was what they had in mind.

The swordsman laughed in a guttural sound. “Look at ya now, little templar. Not so high and mighty without your Queen, are ya?”

The two men flanking him urged their kanks closer, spears raised and surrounding me on three sides. My kank, injured and panicked, bucked again, forcing me to steady myself. The situation was hopeless. My escape was cut off, my resources destroyed, and I was outnumbered three to one.

A Desperate Gamble

As despair threatened to take hold, my hand brushed against something in my pack, something cold, smooth, and heavy - the obsidian stick.

I had found it buried deep in the Archives of Raam, and I had taken it during my escape. Its dark surface, marked with runes, was calling to me…even though I didn’t fully understand its purpose. Desperation gave me courage, or perhaps madness.

Pulling the stick from my pack, I held it tightly. It seemed to hum faintly, almost vibrating in response to my touch. Blood from a cut on my palm smeared across the obsidian, and as it seeped into the grooves of the artifact, the stick began to heat up in my hand. Smoke rose from its surface, curling like ghostly tendrils into the air. The riders paused, their expressions shifting from amusement to confusion.

“What’s that?” one of them muttered, gripping his spear more tightly.

The swordsman’s sneer deepened. “Another parlor trick? Do yar worst, templar.”

I didn’t know what I was doing, only that I had to act. With a cry of desperation, I raised the stick high and cracked it downward toward my pursuers.

The effect was immediate. The obsidian stick erupted with a deafening boom, a sound so powerful that it felt like the earth itself was splitting open. A massive thunderclap tore through the air, followed by a surge of force that knocked me backward off my kank.

The two spearmen bore the full brunt of the blast. Their kanks screeched in agony as the riders were thrown violently to the ground, their bodies broken and lifeless before they hit the sand.

The swordsman’s kank reared up, throwing him off balance. He hit the ground hard, a gash on his forehead dripping blood down his face. His armor was scorched, smoke rising from the edges of his clothing.

For a moment, there was only silence, save for the faint crackle of lingering energy in the air. My ears rang, my vision was blurred, and my hands trembled as I looked at the smoking remains of the obsidian stick, now fractured and inert.

The survivor groaned as he pushed himself up, his face twisted in pain and fury. He looked at the lifeless bodies of his men, then at me.

“Ya bastard,” he spat, his voice a mix of rage and disbelief, “Ya’ll pay for that.”

But I had no intention of sticking around. Scrambling to my feet, I mounted my kank and spurred it forward, forcing it to move despite its wounds. I didn’t look back as I fled, the echoes of the thunderclap still ringing in my ears.