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

The desert sun was merciless. Each step through the dunes felt heavier than the last, with the heat pressing down like a weight on my back; and it was about to get worse. My kank, loyal and enduring despite its injuries, stumbled beneath me. I urged it forward, but its labored movements grew slower with each passing moment.

Finally, with a pitiful groan, the creature collapsed onto the burning sand. I slid off its back, falling to my knees. The beast layed there, its sides heaving as it struggled to breathe, its wounds too severe to continue.

I placed a hand on its carapace, murmuring an apology that the beast couldn’t understand. It had carried me this far, but now it was clear: I would have to go on alone.

From where I knelt, the horizon stretched endlessly in every direction, a sea of shimmering heat. Then, in the distance, I saw a glimpse of salvation: high hills with their jagged peaks standing out against the flat expanse of the desert. They were far away…but they were my only hope.

Returning to Raam was not an option. The thought of M’ke’s men, or worse, the mobs and chaos of the city, sent a shiver down my spine despite the heat. No, I couldn’t go back.

I began to walk.

The first few steps were steady, but the desert soon revealed its true cruelty. The sun blazed overhead, relentless and unforgiving, and the wind offered no reprieve, only carrying hot, dry air that stung my eyes and throat. Each breath felt like inhaling fire.

The obsidian stick was gone, shattered in my desperate attempt to survive. My water was gone, spilled uselessly into the sand. My pack, once carefully prepared for the journey, now seemed to mock me with its contents: herbs I couldn’t use, tools I didn’t need, and fragments of a life that no longer mattered.

My steps faltered. The hills didn’t seem any closer, no matter how far I walked. The horizon blurred, the world was spinning around me. My mouth was dry, my skin burned, and my legs felt like lead.

As I stumbled forward, the ground seemed to shift beneath my feet. I tripped and fell, the hot sand burning my palms as I tried to push myself up. It was then that I saw them: small, spiny cacti, their needles glinting in the sun.

Desperation gave me strength. Crawling on my hands and knees, I reached the nearest cactus and pulled out my knife. The blade trembled in my hand as I hacked away at the tough, fibrous skin, ignoring the needles that stuck into my flesh.

Finally, a tiny trickle of liquid seeped out: a bitter, acidic sap that smelled faintly of rot. I didn’t care. Cupping my hands, I drank, letting the meager liquid coat my parched throat. It wasn’t enough to satisfy my thirst, but it was enough to keep me alive.

With the last of my strength, I crawled toward a large boulder nearby. Its shadow stretched long across the sand, a small island of coolness in an ocean of heat. I collapsed against it, my back scraping against the rough stone and my head tilted back toward the sky.

The hills were still far away, but I couldn’t move another inch. Sleep, or perhaps unconsciousness, overtook me as the desert’s harsh winds howled around me. In the darkness behind my closed eyes, I dreamed of water and the cool air of the archives I once called home.

I awoke to the sound of sharp rustling and hurried movements, like claws scraping against cloth and bone. My head pounded, and my throat felt as dry as the sand beneath me; it took a moment to remember where I was: the desert, the hills in the distance, the collapse beneath the boulder.

And now, strangers rifling through my belongings.

Through half-closed eyes, I saw them: three small, hunched figures with matted fur and long tails - tari. They moved with a mix of caution and urgency, pulling apart my scattered pack and inspecting its contents with the quick efficiency of scavengers.

In their rush for examination, they hadn’t noticed that I was still alive - not until a groan escaped my lips.

The tari froze, their large, dark eyes darting toward me. One hissed sharply, its tail lashing the air as it dropped my bag. Another stepped back, crouching low and baring its needle-like teeth, ready to bolt or attack if needed.

I raised a hand weakly, trying to show I meant no harm, but the movement only seemed to alarm them further.

It was then that my eyes caught the small worn symbol etched into a crude wooden amulet hanging from one of the tari’s neck. It was unmistakable: a sign of the Badna faithful. Memories of the Ghost City temple and the audacious tari who had once approached me with their forbidden request flooded back.

Desperation gave me clarity. Summoning the faintest strength, I rasped out the handful of Tari words I had learned so long ago. The words came slowly and clumsily. “Peace… I know Badna… faithful.”

The tari recoiled, showing a mixture of surprise and suspicion. One of them, larger and adorned with scraps of dyed cloth, stepped forward cautiously. Its eyes narrowed as it studied me, tilting its head as if trying to discern whether I was a threat.

I pointed weakly toward one of the younger tari, one whose leg was crudely bandaged and swollen with infection. “Injured,” I managed to say. “I… can heal.”

The leader glanced at the injured companion, then back at me. It hissed something in their own tongue, and the others began murmuring among themselves.

One of the older tari squinted at me, its gaze lingering longer than the others. Slowly, recognition dawned on its face. It stepped closer, chittering excitedly to the leader. Though I couldn’t understand their words, I caught the occasional phrase: “Calligraphy,” “temple,” “Ghost City.”

The leader’s tail flicked sharply, silencing the murmurs. It gestured toward me, then at the injured tari, as if testing my claim.

With trembling hands, I reached into the scattered remnants of my pack and retrieved the few medical supplies that hadn’t been lost or ruined. The herbs were brittle and the tools rudimentary… but they would suffice.

The injured tari hesitated as I approached, its eyes wide with fear. Carefully, I applied a bandage to the swollen wound, binding it with clean strips of cloth torn from my own sleeve.

The other tari watched in tense silence, their dark eyes fixed on me. When the younger one winced and shifted its weight, I murmured soothingly, hoping to convey calm despite my own exhaustion.

When the work was done, the leader stepped forward again, its expression unreadable. It studied me for a long moment before speaking in halting Common.

“You… writer. From temple. Calligraphy… good.”

It wasn’t a question, but a statement. They knew who I was.

For the first time in what felt like days, a faint smile touched my lips. “Yes,” I rasped, nodding weakly. “Calligraphy… yours. I remember.”

The tari chittered among themselves again, their suspicion giving way to cautious curiosity. The leader seemed to weigh its options before gesturing for the others to gather my belongings. Though I was too weak to understand all that was happening, one thing was clear: they had chosen not to abandon me.

As they helped me to my feet, the leader hissed something sharp and definitive, its tone commanding. I didn’t understand the words, but their meaning was clear enough: “Come with us.”

And so, for the first time in my life, the tari saved me.