Champion Canaya,

I hope this letter finds you in high spirit and honor.

  To dance the dance of blades with you would be of the utmost honor, regardless of what the outcome may be. 37 times I have fought, and 37 times I have bested my foes. To your record I know that I am not truly worthy, but I ask that you will come find out if the record really means anything. I am residing at Nealah, a small town in the dry swamps by the west coast. If you have the means, seek me and we shall cross blades until the best wins. If you do not have such means, reply as soon as possible, so that I may seek you out.

bh'Khelar,

Ashber.

Of course, the prospect is certainly interesting. The matter really comes down to the question of the swordsmanship of this Ashber. It hardly would be the first time I went out of my way to fight a duelist with a strong record, but it would be the furthest I've traveled for such. I have a home built here; I have garnered enough fame I no longer must travel to find opponents- they find me. Still, something about this letter makes me want to seek out this Ashber.

Perhaps it is simply adventurous spirit, which, normally I would cite as a distraction from the pursuit of betterment. In this case, though, there is no need to reprimand myself for that which will bring me personal and spiritual growth.

The purse rattles with the weight of the gold in it. My winnings were often substantially larger than I surmised anyone, especially myself could spend. At least today I know I neednt worry. I grab the ornately engraved jian with its sheath from its spot by the door and attach it to my belt. I pull open the wooden door and walk out into the tan stone buildings, raising my shemagh to protect my face from the wind.

Heading towards the posting board near the center of town I spot a posting for some desertfriends advertising their miracle, as I had hoped. Let them focus on supplies and survival, so I may focus on my training. I cross dusty stone streets to go to the location the sign pointed out (downstairs in The Council's Tap). Walking in, its extremely easy to locate the crew staring into their mugs with the expected stoicism of the desertmen, further given away by the rectangular face coverings which they wear over the top of their shawls. I tap the shoulder of the desertman with the most ornate looking clothing and his head perks out of his ale to stare at me with deep rooted fear in his eyes. weakness. Clearly, he already knows me.

"I refuse your offer and I will surrender all of my honor at-"

I cut him off "Im looking for transportation, friend." He looks at me as if I had just told him he bested me in a duel. "300 gold" he quickly says, "and we can go whenever you'd like."

I grab a handful of money and hand it to him. Around the table the other desertmen shoot each other incredulous looks; I hardly care for the money either way, and this hopefully means they will take good care of my meals. It would hardly be good to be training on an empty stomach. After counting it up he holds out his hand, "Relyn of Ania at your service, miss. I can have my men gather the camels when you are ready to depart."

---~

Theres no choice. While I hardly want to leave behind my only way of getting across this shithole, I must do what I can to avoid the screecher. As always, I will do what I must to survive. I climb off the back of the camel, taking care to make as little noise as possible. My bare feet hit the sand, and I break into a quick jog to put as much distance as possible from the camel. I decide to move directly away from the death mountains, which I can only assume the screecher came from. The camel stares at me as if he somehow knows what Im letting happen to him.

The screeching is getting louder, now. Its almost impossible to tell if I'm even moving away from it. Wouldn't that be funny, if my plan to sacrifice my camel ended with me dead, and my camel safe. Almost as if to prove me wrong, I heard the camel wail; It must have been struck by one of the screecher's mandibles. Still, I continue my measured pace, as sprinting through the desert is beyond foolish.

...

The sun hangs a few hours lower, and I realize I have (foolishly!) left behind an extra waterskin. I do not know how many more days I must travel, and I still only have a vague idea of my destination. It has been a few days since I had last eaten, and the waterskin I do have is less than half-full. If I am to make it anywhere, I need to find food, and I will need water before my journey ends.

I put up the canvas which covered the top of my pak and lay it across the ground. I find a small outcropping along the red striped stone bordering the dunes which should make for a safe (bug free), camping spot. The canvas blows in the wind and only stays down thanks to my placement of some very heavy rocks; likely it would be another cold night.

I awake to a growling stomach. Food would be something I need to adress. I simply did not bring enough with me and I had also greatly underestimated the difficulty of desert hunting. I will need to be on the lookout as I head what I hope is west. 

Being without a camel was tough. A sore ass has nothing on being on your feet for hours without any opportunities of shade. So far the only prospects for food are sand and a few weedy plants which were at best inedible and worst deadly poisonous. The alleged bugs of the sand are yet to show their faces, if they can even survive here. I have taken to following along the red stone rock formation which I had slept on last night. Even if it is perhaps not the exact same direction I was heading initially, the dunes which stretch out to my right seemingly into infinity seem insurmountable. I cannot take much more of this desert.

---~

I stare out into the dunes, the city already fading into the mirage behind us. All around, there is nothing but sand. Where does it all come from? Where will it all go? Where will I go, when I die? I rouse myself from distraction and draw my sword, practicing standing forms while riding the camel. The blow to my side hurts during diagonal slashes from my right, perhaps I ought to avoid those for now, or I could practice left-handed. I switch arms and begin mirroring my right-handed form, albeit with glaring mistakes; I certainly look foolish now, but the desertmen are either smart enough or got paid enough that none have made any comments.

Desertfriends wore layers of expensive looking silk which had been carefully embroidered and inlaid. Displaying their fortunes was the desertfriend's equivalence to honor. In my opinion, it was simply a multilated version of the duel. Why compete to survive or to cross the desert? It was something where one could have an advantage, or luck could be a major factor. No, the duel truly was the only pure form of honor. Still, I did need to cross the desert, so I suppose they are not without praise. I pause my practice of the forms as the leader, (Relyn?) approaches me. "Storm is on the way, take these." he hands me the thin rectangular mask desertfriends are known for. I hardly could even see the coming of the wind but I knew better than to think a desertfriend unsure of the goings on of the Thaki, so I reach across to his camel and grab the mask by its strap, placing it on my head. "Thanks, Relyn." He nods in affirmation, but continues walking at my side.

"I have seen you duel many times." he says to me.

"and?"

"I admire your resolve. It is uncommon for duelists to be female at all, let alone to keep the record which you do." Did the man have the hots? Spit it out, man.

"I appreciate your praises, but I duel for its own sake, regardless." 

he looked at me as if I had just told him I had a pet screecher. "You actually beleive that stuff?" he asks with a hint of shock in his voice.

"By 'that stuff' you mean that which dueling is founded on and the reason people pursue it?"

He shook his head, "Almost every duelist I've met has told me bluntly that they only seek money."

"then you have not met any duelist." I reply cooly. Let the fool figure out the meaning.

"perhaps not, definitely none such as yourself." he makes eye contact.

I grin at him, "I understand your intentions, desertman. Do not think I will lie down with you. Even if I do, it will be you, not me, who will bend over and listen to every order carefully." even under his shemagh I can see a crimson flush fight its way against his darkly tanned skin. Without another word he leaves me and resumes his position at the head of the column. Maybe I could have some fun on this trip, too. Only if it did not hinder my training, of course.