Thread: Daughter Of Dune (Ursus Peregrinus & darkangel76)

Marid His sharp eyes had watched his charge over the journey in the 'thopter, and Marid had been impressed at how she bore her fear in silence and stillness. In some ways she reminded him of the young women who trained under the Sayyadina. Quiet and watchful and carefully controlled. That was for the best. She would need her faculties in the days ahead. Hersilia took the pack and Marid saw her struggle with it, but she did not complain. They walked through to sunrise, the pace he set was slow but the brutally wearing as they made their way through the soft, fine sand. Each step engulfed their feet to the ankles, adding to the weight of each step. The robes they wore were weighted at the hem, to drag behind their steps and sweep away their tracks, leaving little trace to be followed. A proper band would have had two or three walking behind to blur their tracks properly, but alone they would have to make do. The sun rose and with it came a punishing heat. Moving during the day was something no Fremen did without need. The Sun was an enemy, the moons were a friend and the cool of darkness was a safer time to travel. But Marid was testing his charge. Forcing her to press on to the edge of exhaustion. There was an honesty in suffering, he told himself, it stripped away masks and laid the inner self bare for inspection. Still, Hersilia's voice stopped him and he turned and nodded. This way, down the slip face of the dune, there's a patch of pea sand there. We'll make camp for the day, continue tonight. He took the pack from her, felt her forehead and frowned. Drain your catchpockets. Your body is water-fat, not used to the desert. Carrying her pack down to the gravelly patch of sand between two dunes, he quickly staked down a small stilltent and set up its sandsnork before laying a camouflage tarp over it to blur its outlines further. Marid gestured for her to crawl inside, then joined her after passing in their packs. As he did, Hersilia could feel that his weighed perhaps half as much as the pack she carried. Let me check the doorseals and we may relax stillsuit discipline. He told her, closing the tent and lighting a small glowglobe hanging from the roof. Satisfied that their tent was sealed and secure, Marid finally flipped his hood back and then slipped his cloak and robes off, sitting cross-legged in his stillsuit. Hersilia saw his form, broad shoulders and narrow hips, a lean build of whipcord muscle. Several inches beneath six feet in height, but he filled the space around him and seemed to loom in the small tent. As he slipped the cap and mask of his stillsuit off, she saw the hawklike features and deep tan of his skin. His hair was black and reached to his shoulders, held back by a cord. Dark blue-on-blue eyes looked out from eyepits stained with ink to fight the sun's glare. His nose was strong and his prominent cheekbones bore small black tattoos, little glyphs of the Bhotani Jib, lines of a poem or song 'These are the Four that are never content, that have never been filled since the Dews began Jacalas mouth, and the glut of the Kite, and the hands of the Ape, and the Eyes of Man.' Pulling off his stillsuit's gloves, Hersilia saw hands roughened by labour, bearing scars and calluses that told a story of the hard life he was born to. Opening his pack he removed several objects and nodded to her. Passing her a small flask of cold spice coffee and a pair of large white pills, Marid spoke. His deep voice was like rough silk. Drink this, and then suck on these. Slowly. They are salt, your body needs to replenish itself or you will be too weak to continue tonight. The pills were almost pure salt, incredibly bitter. Take off your filters and let me examine them. If your suit is uncomfortable, tell me. That's the sign of a poor fit. The suit is your second skin now, it is your life. Without it you would be dead in three days, four at most. With it you'll lose no more than a few drops of the body's water each day. Marid fell silent again, folding his robe and laying it on the floor of the tent. Laying down, he closed his eyes, one hand on the hilt of his crysknife. Sleep while you can. Tonight will be longer. Broken Cliffs is a long journey from here. He smiled faintly, a ghost of a smirk touching his lips for a moment. Our route was almost directly away from Broken Cliffs. One of the other 'thopters will have gone towards it, then rendezvoused with a band of Fremen who will conceal the craft. It would take a lucky mentat to guess at our location, since not even Kaleff knows the route I planned. tag