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Description
The Desert's Firstborn
(Prologue)

Richard's right hand clenched the small hood over his face, keeping the gritty wind from pulling the cowl off his head. His left held his gnarled walking stick, anchoring him from the fierce wind and pulling him closer to death with each step. The dunes rose high above him, and he climbed the steep sand, falling down the shifting sands by more than half the distance gained with every foothold.

In all the directions of the wind, nothing. Sand, grit, and rock were Richard's only companions. Killing his feet, and burning his back, the sand and the sun worked in tandem to break every last bit of Richard's strength. With leagues of scorched sand between him and the last green plant, He knew he could not turn back. The canteen strapped to his belt was empty, and had been for nearly a day and a half.

Richard unbuckled the small leather case and dropped it to the ground. "Why waste the effort carrying it?" he thought as the canteen skittered down the sandy slopes. Once again his minds drifted to the villages where he had stayed. He remembered the people. They wanted him out. Gone. Done for. With their swords and spears, they shoved him out of the village. This last town had been different. When the gates closed behind him this time, a small leather canteen came flying over the walls. Their message had been clear: Head east, to the desert. Cross it, and never return. Richard didn't have the skill or will to become a bandit, and every house across the continent had barred him from entry. His only option was the desert. Somehow they must have known it. Or they wished him to die.

Richard crested the hill. Beyond: more desert. He would not be able to cross it. He had had no water for too long. They really had wanted him to die. This... this would be the last of Richard Quicktongue, master storyteller. The memories of the stories of his youth comforted Richard's dazed mind. As his body lay in the burning sand, his mind wandered to his favorite stories, myths, legends, and monsters. Which, he wondered, had been real at one point? Which had always been lies? Even now, with his dying breath, He wished he could glimpse an angel, hovering above him. Just once... just... once...

Richard awoke. The cool sand chilled him, and his threadbare cloak did nothing to stop it. He looked up to the sky, where the pale moon hung like a fly caught in a web. The night air was the icy clamor of death, as the wind tore at his frail form, and froze his skin to the bone. The sand, like powdered glass, etched itself into the cracks and creases of Richard's weathered body. The cool air had refreshed him, as the sun swept beneath the horizon. But now it had dropped beneath the bearable level. Richard shivered, as he had on the long nights previous, traveling far into the desert.

A small sound echoed with his silent shiver.

Richard stood stock-still, straining his ears to the noise. The small patter of feet could be heard, like someone traveling barefoot on rock, and another sound, louder, of a hard object striking stone... Richard glanced in each direction, back and forth, over and over. Nothing could be seen in any direction, and yet... it continued. In a few minutes, the clicking and patter gave way to a muffled scraping sound, slowly coming towards him. As it grew louder and louder, Richard realized where the sound came from: right beneath his feet. He crouched down into the sand, and began digging. what mysteries the desert must hold, what secrets. The lure of excitement peeled away his weariness, and Richard struck rock. The clicking stopped, and the noise of what could only be footsteps raced away from where Richard had dug. Feeling his way around the solid ridge of rock, he pushed through the sand and found himself in a cave, the moonlight shining off the glistening walls. Nearly fifteen feet into the crevice of the cave, two small, black, beady eyes stared right back at him, whose body hid in shadow.

Moving very slowly, Richard pulled off his battered cloak and wrapped it around the head of his walking stick. with his other hand, he pulled the flint from his belt and struck the metal on his breastplate. With only a spark, the glinting eyes darted, retreating into the cave. On his fifth try, Richard ignited his cape. At best, his make-shift torch would last fifteen minutes. The pitiful protection the cloak provided Richard from the elements was worth far less than whatever lay in this cave, be it his death, or his final reward.

As the blaze grew brighter, Richard's eyes once again attached themselves to the glistening walls, the stench of copper and ore wringing his nose. "What an odd material..." he mumbled to himself as he put his hand up to the wall, and brushed it with his fingers.

Revulsion climbed up Richard's throat as he realized the shiny, sticky liquid absolutely coating the walls was human blood. Richard keeled over and puked, covering the rocky floor in bile. Was this the entrance to hell itself? Could he have accidentally crossed the threshold of death? Richard woke from his revelry. No. This could not be hell. No demons guarded the gates, no angels warned him of the danger. The blood was only a warning, placed ages ago by someone with a secret. But why was it so fresh? His mind bugged him for answers, but he put them away. The secret of this cave would be found, by him, before he died of his undernourished body and aching bones. Richard slowly trudged his way deeper into the darkness.

After a few feet, the blood-soaked walls ended, and the hall continued down, deeper and deeper into the darkness of the cave. After a few minutes, it leveled out, and the hall stretched to a huge antechamber, stalactites hanging from the roof, so high as to be invisible to his flickering flame. Stalagmites pushed themselves from the ground, arching to meet their cousins in the sky. With a start, he realized that the creation of such rock formations existed only in calcium enriched environments, where water dripped from the ceiling. Eagerly, he dropped his torch and ran to the nearest, licking the cold, wet, stone with his dry tongue. It tasted of poison and rock, but he had water in his mouth. He turned to grab his torch, to search for a reservoir, something. Any pool of water he could find.

A small Boy, silent as the grave, stood crouching near Richard's dropped torch. The pitch-black, small beady eyes glared at Richard, as if he had disturbed the most holiest of places. Richard's own eyes glazed as he stared at the small creature's chest.

It stood, it's arms wrapped around it's chest from the cold. But, from it's armpits protruded another set of arms, equal in size and held towards the flame, as though to gain the heat as quickly as possible. Yet another set from beneath those reached towards the staff itself, lifting the flaming stick into the air. There was not even a startle as it touched the burning embers of the stick, placing it's face deep into the flames, as if sniffing for something. The creature continued this, moving along the stick until it reached the handgrip, still sticky with the blood from the entrance. The sound was unnatural. As it's tongue reached the stick, an eerily familiar scraping sound echoed throughout the cave as it lapped what little of the dire liquid remained on the stick.

It came to him, in that cave. The name of the creature. Arakin. Spider-Demon. Never had he dreamed he would ever see one face to face. Ever see any creature from the stories he told in the villages. Of the monsters and nightmares, set to take the lives of innocent. It were these stories that drove him from the village. crying, frightened children. Angered, hateful parents. Simple stories, Worth so little. Worth so much hate. Not even himself, the teller of truth and deception, the storyteller, had ever thought they could be so real. He lifted his hand to the light cast from the dying flames, the blood remaining from the single touch at the entrance. The Arakin stared at it, mesmerized by redish glint in the last of the flame's light.

Richard walked closer to the small... boy. the Young Arakin lifted one of it's hands, and pulled Richard's hand closer to him. Richard's strength had gone. Even if he did not wish it, he could not stop the Child's pull. His life wish had been fulfilled. He had met a creature of legend. A proof of his "lies". He did not worry about death. The Arakin bent it's head and licked Richard's hand, the tongue as hard as steel, and course as ribbed chainmail. Richard closed his eyes as the beast's teeth broke Richard's skin, and the blood being fed upon was his own.

Description
The Desert's Firstborn
(Prologue)

Richard's right hand clenched the small hood over his face, keeping the gritty wind from pulling the cowl off his head. His left held his gnarled walking stick, anchoring him from the fierce wind and pulling him closer to death with each step. The dunes rose high above him, and he climbed the steep sand, falling down the shifting sands by more than half the distance gained with every foothold.

In all the directions of the wind, nothing. Sand, grit, and rock were Richard's only companions. Killing his feet, and burning his back, the sand and the sun worked in tandem to break every last bit of Richard's strength. With leagues of scorched sand between him and the last green plant, He knew he could not turn back. The canteen strapped to his belt was empty, and had been for nearly a day and a half.

Richard unbuckled the small leather case and dropped it to the ground. "Why waste the effort carrying it?" he thought as the canteen skittered down the sandy slopes. Once again his minds drifted to the villages where he had stayed. He remembered the people. They wanted him out. Gone. Done for. With their swords and spears, they shoved him out of the village. This last town had been different. When the gates closed behind him this time, a small leather canteen came flying over the walls. Their message had been clear: Head east, to the desert. Cross it, and never return. Richard didn't have the skill or will to become a bandit, and every house across the continent had barred him from entry. His only option was the desert. Somehow they must have known it. Or they wished him to die.

Richard crested the hill. Beyond: more desert. He would not be able to cross it. He had had no water for too long. They really had wanted him to die. This... this would be the last of Richard Quicktongue, master storyteller. The memories of the stories of his youth comforted Richard's dazed mind. As his body lay in the burning sand, his mind wandered to his favorite stories, myths, legends, and monsters. Which, he wondered, had been real at one point? Which had always been lies? Even now, with his dying breath, He wished he could glimpse an angel, hovering above him. Just once... just... once...

Richard awoke. The cool sand chilled him, and his threadbare cloak did nothing to stop it. He looked up to the sky, where the pale moon hung like a fly caught in a web. The night air was the icy clamor of death, as the wind tore at his frail form, and froze his skin to the bone. The sand, like powdered glass, etched itself into the cracks and creases of Richard's weathered body. The cool air had refreshed him, as the sun swept beneath the horizon. But now it had dropped beneath the bearable level. Richard shivered, as he had on the long nights previous, traveling far into the desert.

A small sound echoed with his silent shiver.

Richard stood stock-still, straining his ears to the noise. The small patter of feet could be heard, like someone traveling barefoot on rock, and another sound, louder, of a hard object striking stone... Richard glanced in each direction, back and forth, over and over. Nothing could be seen in any direction, and yet... it continued. In a few minutes, the clicking and patter gave way to a muffled scraping sound, slowly coming towards him. As it grew louder and louder, Richard realized where the sound came from: right beneath his feet. He crouched down into the sand, and began digging. what mysteries the desert must hold, what secrets. The lure of excitement peeled away his weariness, and Richard struck rock. The clicking stopped, and the noise of what could only be footsteps raced away from where Richard had dug. Feeling his way around the solid ridge of rock, he pushed through the sand and found himself in a cave, the moonlight shining off the glistening walls. Nearly fifteen feet into the crevice of the cave, two small, black, beady eyes stared right back at him, whose body hid in shadow.

Moving very slowly, Richard pulled off his battered cloak and wrapped it around the head of his walking stick. with his other hand, he pulled the flint from his belt and struck the metal on his breastplate. With only a spark, the glinting eyes darted, retreating into the cave. On his fifth try, Richard ignited his cape. At best, his make-shift torch would last fifteen minutes. The pitiful protection the cloak provided Richard from the elements was worth far less than whatever lay in this cave, be it his death, or his final reward.

As the blaze grew brighter, Richard's eyes once again attached themselves to the glistening walls, the stench of copper and ore wringing his nose. "What an odd material..." he mumbled to himself as he put his hand up to the wall, and brushed it with his fingers.

Revulsion climbed up Richard's throat as he realized the shiny, sticky liquid absolutely coating the walls was human blood. Richard keeled over and puked, covering the rocky floor in bile. Was this the entrance to hell itself? Could he have accidentally crossed the threshold of death? Richard woke from his revelry. No. This could not be hell. No demons guarded the gates, no angels warned him of the danger. The blood was only a warning, placed ages ago by someone with a secret. But why was it so fresh? His mind bugged him for answers, but he put them away. The secret of this cave would be found, by him, before he died of his undernourished body and aching bones. Richard slowly trudged his way deeper into the darkness.

After a few feet, the blood-soaked walls ended, and the hall continued down, deeper and deeper into the darkness of the cave. After a few minutes, it leveled out, and the hall stretched to a huge antechamber, stalactites hanging from the roof, so high as to be invisible to his flickering flame. Stalagmites pushed themselves from the ground, arching to meet their cousins in the sky. With a start, he realized that the creation of such rock formations existed only in calcium enriched environments, where water dripped from the ceiling. Eagerly, he dropped his torch and ran to the nearest, licking the cold, wet, stone with his dry tongue. It tasted of poison and rock, but he had water in his mouth. He turned to grab his torch, to search for a reservoir, something. Any pool of water he could find.

A small Boy, silent as the grave, stood crouching near Richard's dropped torch. The pitch-black, small beady eyes glared at Richard, as if he had disturbed the most holiest of places. Richard's own eyes glazed as he stared at the small creature's chest.

It stood, it's arms wrapped around it's chest from the cold. But, from it's armpits protruded another set of arms, equal in size and held towards the flame, as though to gain the heat as quickly as possible. Yet another set from beneath those reached towards the staff itself, lifting the flaming stick into the air. There was not even a startle as it touched the burning embers of the stick, placing it's face deep into the flames, as if sniffing for something. The creature continued this, moving along the stick until it reached the handgrip, still sticky with the blood from the entrance. The sound was unnatural. As it's tongue reached the stick, an eerily familiar scraping sound echoed throughout the cave as it lapped what little of the dire liquid remained on the stick.

It came to him, in that cave. The name of the creature. Arakin. Spider-Demon. Never had he dreamed he would ever see one face to face. Ever see any creature from the stories he told in the villages. Of the monsters and nightmares, set to take the lives of innocent. It were these stories that drove him from the village. crying, frightened children. Angered, hateful parents. Simple stories, Worth so little. Worth so much hate. Not even himself, the teller of truth and deception, the storyteller, had ever thought they could be so real. He lifted his hand to the light cast from the dying flames, the blood remaining from the single touch at the entrance. The Arakin stared at it, mesmerized by redish glint in the last of the flame's light.

Richard walked closer to the small... boy. the Young Arakin lifted one of it's hands, and pulled Richard's hand closer to him. Richard's strength had gone. Even if he did not wish it, he could not stop the Child's pull. His life wish had been fulfilled. He had met a creature of legend. A proof of his "lies". He did not worry about death. The Arakin bent it's head and licked Richard's hand, the tongue as hard as steel, and course as ribbed chainmail. Richard closed his eyes as the beast's teeth broke Richard's skin, and the blood being fed upon was his own.