• "The Aronadi had very little to say on laws, to the best of our knowledge they have none. Our caretaker was keen to say, "[You] Know what is evil. All peoples know this thing, [and] must act to remove it. To say you must do it such a way, [or] it is only evil if it happens such a way, that is inviting more of the same." It is important to note in their simple language, evil and harm are the some word. "Don". Curiously enough, their word for man is 'Adone' "
    ~ Deacon Riechard Vin
    Ghost of Mist and Sand
    C.H. 1450

    Act 1
    Sceen1
    Untimely



    Despite what the papers said, he wasn't white.
    White happened when all the light was reflected away, when nothing on the visible spectrum of color was absorbed. No, he had absorbed plenty of colorful things, but they still, inexplicably, wished to call him white.
    He was an anti-color. That little explosion of void you got when someone flattened you out on the ground for a statement that left them without a rational rebuttal. Like the little spots that floated just in the corners of your vision, he was never truly there, and was a sign that somethings are better left alone.
    There in lied the problem, he ran one of his nearly translucent fingers over the long complicated inkings that had faded over his skin. As he trailed over the thin covering of mussel, he wondered exactly where exactly he'd been all these years. He pondered on things like this often. Often with such intensity that he couldn't rightly think.
    He studied his nails absently, as they danced over his arm, both the cuticles and the patterns they were thick, and smooth. Only the faintest ting of yellow on the under curve of the nails belied that his hands were no longer as steady as they once were. The pastel grey ink on his pale skin lead down to his right hand, in which sat a eggshell white paper with brackish blue ink that scrawled out words.
    It was an article on how he had promised to disappear, how he'd gotten tired and would give the world a rest from his existence for a few years. Thirty years to be exact, he'd wanted to see what kind of children would be brought up if he were gone. If in a time of peace -against all odds- there might be some progress.
    But alas, time would not permit this experiment, he'd had to cut the time by half due to a disturbing revelation. Life had a fantastic ability to make a man hurry, and then force him to wait. He couldn't exactly walk in, in broad daylight without creating an untimely panic. So he waited, just a few moments for night when irrational fear would be perfectly acceptable.
    Only fifteen years and here he was again looking down on a sleepy little merchant town, with almost exactly as many shops as there were residents. That may seem like a very foolish way to build a city, and sure enough in a world where the fastest way to travel was on some beast back, it would've surely meant the desertion of the town had it been anywhere else.
    Fortunately, it was strategically placed between three towns, each only a days walk away. On the back of some unfortunate animal one could get there, do their business and be home in the same day rather than making a three day trip for supplies. (One being reserved for the actual business and rest for the world was very foolish to travel at night)

    It was all very reminiscent of the beginning, the night was just starting to set in, and the sands winds that were mercilessly strong during the day were dieing down. Now the ancient red sun struggled with the veil of night. Light seeped through holes in the wisp of clouds the light and shadow casting a strange flow of colors. Sulfur yellow and blood red on the edges nearest the sun, bleeding back to a deep blue that thickened into a sinisterly dark violet farther away. The far edge of the vespers to melted into the darkening sky as well as a wave that breaks from the sea.

    Flames sprung up into the air in wild arches four to six feet high. Soon anything that was blocking it's path was burned away and the fires settled down to blazes of two feet.
    Underground pipes held vast amounts of fats and oils, sometimes these fuels would clump together, creating pressure differences that resulted in a spectacular show every night when the pipes were lighted. By mourning the pipes would be nearly empty, due to the depth of the pipes, the fire often starved itself out just after sunrise. After lunch the fats of the various meals and slaughter animals would be collected and added to a great fermenting pot. Roughly a fourth of this great pot's contents were needed to refill the great pipes.
    It was a miserable, dangerous and messy job, he recalled, originally given to prisoners or slaves. He smiled to think they were often thrown to the ferment vat themselves. Not very Poetic, but at least it was ironic.
    Recently it fell to the unfortunate. Which was neith ironic or poetic so this reminder brought no joy to him.
    It was the type of job mothers used to scare children into completing school. The kind of job rich men and merchants used to scare their children into becoming great liars. While the first often became bored and the second often got rich(er) or caught, it was those honest and simple folk who fell into this hard job. But for all of it, they took great pride because the fires were essential to their life, and thusly, despite being filthy, they were too.
    They would’ve liked a public reminder of what their hard work did.
    Firstly, the fires light attracted night fliers that ate all sorts of vermin.
    Secondly, the heat kept the arctic chill of the vast desert from piercing the city.
    Thirdly, the animals that burrowed beneath would sense the ground warming, and believing it some great, hot blooded predator, they would quickly change course.

    The poor blind creatures had nothing to fear, all their predators had been driven into extinction by the beast that lived inside the stone walls of the desert town. One would assume that a animal might notice if they were being eaten less often and there happened to be more of ladies about. But all those creature bothered to worry about was reproduction, eating, not getting eaten, and reproduction. They were very good at the first and last things -much to the distress of the people who'd killed their predators. Being thus distracted, and having to find times to eat, not getting eaten was a rare concern embedded into their genetics as a great bother that needed to be avoided. It over ran all other possible priorities, no matter how vastly frustrating it might be.
    Surely the oil keepers, pipe cleaners, and fat gathers could tell you more reasons their job was of the up most importance, but they are not telling this story and will have to suffice with a creditable pat on the back while we return to the plot itself.

    Many years that had past, yet the desert towns were still the same, with high stone buildings and pillars on the outside. The inside buildings all standing in the formers shadow, painted with lines of red and green in an attempt to combat the monotony of everything being the color of sand.
    Something about that both pleased an quietly disturbed him. The sun died under the weight of night, being squeezed into a thin slit on the horizon. Only to be promptly crushed all together.
    He crumpled the paper and let it roll out of his hand. His pale hands dusted off a brown fur that covered his waist and knees. His ink streaked legs stretched and his bare feet wriggled his pale toes in between the shifting sands. His hands reached up to his face, checking his earrings. Four in his left, one pearl, one bone crescent, a two tiny golden loops inserted in the same hole, each with a pointed cone pointing at the earth. The first gem was nestled high and close his his skull, and the last set at the bottom most point of his the lobule, while the middle was exactly where the middle was.
    In his other ear he had but a bone carved into crescent, and seven tiny hoops. They were exactly like those in the other ear, they differed only in that they were not in one hole, and efficiently covered the outermost part of his ear. Sure that they were all in place he ran his hands over his head, a broken down double arrow tattoo taking the forefront of his skull. He affectionately felt the ink filled scars until he came to a small knot of hair. A string of crystalline blue beads held up his dark wiry red hair in a wild ponytail. He drew in a breath and looked at the necklace made of the same fine beads, each one separated by a long shard of yellow bone. They sat comfortably on his bare chest and he pulled his hands over his sides in exactly the same fashion that one does when straightening their suit.
    He took great pride in his appearance. After all he was there to represent all that kept people decent. He blinked his eyes and waited for the faded bronze orbs to focus. The sand shifted under him, a fine grain of auburn sand shifted up out of the fawn sand..
    He started his way down the sandy hill, the odd colored sand flowing behind him just as surely as water follows gravity.
    An thus, quite as the sands shifting hum, did a force both greater and lesser than the man of no color, bring a flood that would drown cities the man had never been.
    This is but the head of the water careening down it's inevitable course, but the crash, and the damage could only be properly accounted at the bottom of a pint. Which incidentally, is where everyone first figured out it was the perfect time to panic. Which fit the pale man just fine.