The Crimson Sands

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The Crimson Sands

By Johanne A Vuiller

The heat of the desert was a new one.

The sun bearing down and scorching any exposed flesh as those marched on.

The cawing of crows had become a constant companion, swooping overhead.

Chapped lips and a parched throat ever seeking something to quench that thirst.

The furs were the first to go.

Sand clung and caked to skin.

The edges of a blue dress turning brown as the march continued.

Tongue prodding at the roof of a mouth, seeking moisture.

Something wet.

It starts with a faint plod.

Before a patter.

A head tilts back, desperation within dark depths.

Crimson begins to rain.

The thirst is not quenched.

Madness, already on the brink, comes forth.

Red stains blue, dying fabric a purple.

Blood soaks life and limb.

And a well sprouts forth as the marching came to an end.

Those rushing for a cool drink for a parched throat.

Crimson staining their skin, drying from the heat.

Blood and sand flake as the first tents stake finds its way upon the newly claimed lands of Balian.

Home.

Spoiler

Figured a little something on the march and the blood rain could be interesting!