Meat Points: Gentle Repose

Pickled in enough Endure Elements to keep it comfortable in the vacuum of space, Artaud’s brain barely noticed the sun baking it alive through sombrero and helm and coif and the partially-scalped remnants of his skull. The sun kept the night creatures underground. Kept the creatures of the day from pestering him. Even the flies neglected to bother his friends where they lay on the sledge behind him.

It was called Fat Sun by those who wished for luck, and O Sun by those who wished for honor. He had thought nasty things about it while he was down there in the dark, where it was useless to him. By way of apology he tried to remember a song about the sun.

Born beneath a blazing star
Through fire and riot, raid and war
To dawngate, where the-

 

There was a hole somewhere in his body, besides his mouth, which the potions hadn’t filled. The plug of tissue holding it shut burst with a squelch and he couldn’t sing anymore. He sagged, then rose and kept walking.

 

Artaud wasn’t used to the Plain by daylight. He had only seen it from the covered porch of the trading post bar, where the cool air from the river kept the spit in his mouth from boiling. Through a haze of aguardiente and arack and mezcales de osobúho and beer chilled in the swift flowing water. Consumed in prodigious quantities that made him feel at home in his own body but obscured his appreciation for the finer aesthetic qualities of the world around him.

It was beautiful. Blue and white and shining like a beach turned upside down. Hills in the distance like a wall. It made him sad that the others weren’t paying attention. Though they grinned and stared he doubted they’d appreciate the view, even if he removed the burlap which kept them from frying on their bed of gold.

What would they do in his place?

Pharnobal would conjure a floating disc to carry the others and ensorcel a wild animal to carry herself. She’d ride it until its lungs burned black and it sweated blood and it collapsed under her and died. She’d sit down right there and wait in the shade of the corpse for another creature to pass by.

Hippolito… would probably cut off their heads and make off with the treasure rather than haul all three of them whole. The minimum necessary for Resurrection.

Rakia would grunt and bend forward against the blowing sand. She’d strip out of her armor and offer her skin up to be burned. Bulky body like an enormous cave adapted grub. Muscles pulsing wetly under fat. She had a few things that belonged to Artaud. Some she was welcome to, others he’d like back. To her it was all the same meat.

Artaud felt sand in his eye. The sand melted and ran down his face. The plain was beautiful and he had nobody to share it with. He couldn’t describe it to anyone. They wouldn’t understand. It wouldn’t be the same. The Grain Cult would Create Water and tile it all with farms and salt sheep. Mills and happy families and enough light to hide the stars at night. He’d be the last one to ever see it like this.

He blinked away the crust of salt and looked out into the heat haze. Had he misjudged the distance? The desert was his alone until twilight, when the crepuscular creatures of the Plain would emerge. He’d have to fight off vultures and scorpions and rhagodessas as they fussed over his friends. If he reached the horst at the edge of the pan by nightfall he might stand a chance. Otherwise…

No need to cry. It was a beautiful day. The sledge wasn’t heavy. He would make it back to the trading post, or he wouldn’t. Either way, he’d be reunited with his friends.

He wiped his eye, ignoring the blisters his mail gauntlet raised on his face.