03-09-2016, 12:20 PM
Across the dunes, Paul and his two secondaries plowed atop a great worm. Paul knew this not to be one of the beast’s of his homeland but some sort of creation of his own mind. Omni must think this his vehicle and Paul knew instinctively that the leviathan would not stay his for long and would aid him not in any sort of conflict. Still, it felt good to bind such a creature to his will. The desert here was too moist for a true sand worm and as they got closer to their destination it became less and less hospitable for a worm.
Soon the sands gave way to badlands and the badlands gave way to scrag and crags. Dismounting in true Fremen fashion, Paul and his companion disembarked and the sandworm sunk back, impossibly, below the surface to sleep off it’s confinement at Paul’s hands.
Somewhere on the horizon, across the great scragland, Paul laid eyes upon a ramshackle town of low structures. This was where he was due to arrive, though when he set out he knew it not. His mount gone, he settled into his easy traveling stride that allowed him to effortlessly travel for days at a time across the desert. While the desert had been moist compared to the Arrakis of his memories he did his best to conserve his body’s water. To a Fremen it could be equated to life. His stillsuit, fitted in deep desert fashion, was more than a match for the temperature here. Still, Paul could not resist the urge to dig the roots of one of the scrag plants up and scrape the moisture from its roots- replenishing a degree of his body’s moisture by chewing the roots and helping his friends do the same.
The, something tipped him off to danger. He could not speak to what it was, but he could feel it sure as day. He flickered backwards, his body collapsing impossibly and snaking to it’s target, crysknife drawn.
The clicking of firearms cocking filled the air and his men raised their weapons- Duncan his sword and Gurney his oversized lasgun. Paul had slipped the distance between himself and a man with a gun with the weirding way- his arm wrapped around the man’s gun arm in a binding gesture and his crysknife pressed to the man’s throat from behind. Paul knew not how the 12 men had snuck up on him and his companions but here they were...
“Y’all better drop ‘em fancy guns an’ swords boys. Might hurt someone wid’ ‘dem.”
Neither of his men moved. These bandits, at least that what seemed reasonable to Paul at the moment, were softer men than the likes of Gurney Halleck and Duncan Idaho and it seemed almost an insult that they lay down their arms to such wet-behind the ears men. Sure, they looked “hard”- bandito bandanas covering the lower parts of their face, stubble and all, and large hats atop their heads, but they did not stand like trained killers. They were arrogant and wild- not trained and sincere in their murderous intent. A true killer would have taken out two of Paul’s party then asked their question of the third so there would be no chance of the three overtaking them. They were perhaps better trained in bravado than in killing and Paul had no doubt he could slit three of their necks before they pulled the trigger.
When they saw that Paul and his men would not drop their weapons, the one who spoke grew sour.
“No don’t be like that! It’s a fair trade! You ate our ‘delicious’ crops and you gotta’ pay ‘fer them!”
Paul hoped this was intended as a jest as it was the worst lie he’d ever heard.
“I will offer you a deal in counter, one we hope you refuse- for once drawn a crysknife cannot be re-sheathed unless it has tasted blood. You see, the blade, when unfixed, needs some degree of moisture to maintain its edge and- as I have drawn it I would not like to waste my blood upon such a... unfortunate misunderstanding.”
“Oh! So the body speaks!” The fat-lipped man who had so pathetically lied to him before exclaimed in mock amusement. “What is this oh-so-generous offer?”
Paul shot him a glance with his blue in blue eyes, pressing the knife against he bandit’s neck a little harder, drawing the tiniest drop of blood from his hostage’s neck. It rolled down his neck like perspiration, and mingled with his body’s water that had already left it in fear.
“You leave with your lives, leaving your guns and your ammunition at our feat, and blood will not be spilt. You may retrieve them once we are far enough away.”
Paul could see what appeared to be small holes with tarps cast aside. That was how they had snuck up on them- an ambush. This must be one of the main roads traveled by those entering the city. Still- he had checked the path ahead and had not seen them. The tarp looked odd- marked with queer symbols and etchings that resembled writing. He would have assumed it was some sort of technology but his mind told them that it was some sort of symbolic language. Magic? Something “psychic”? He could not truly tell- this world was still foreign to him and his mentat facilities needed more information.
The bandits began to laugh, great belly-laughs that shook their forms. Even his hostage nervously giggled.
“Oy- shitheads. Do yer’self some math-o-mathics! We outnumber you by-”
A low hum pierced the air, followed by one more. Vibrations that would have called a worm in the wilderness but here called nothing but the reaper.
Shots rang out and a man’s voice screamed as Paul slit his hostage’s throat. The dust kicked up by the bullet storm was immense but was pierced by a lasgun shaving off limbs and heads. Within the dust Duncan’s sword flicked in and out of the men, just as deadly as Gurney’s lancing laser. Paul slipped from target to target, wasting no energy as he plunged his dagger into their chests and other vital places.
When the dust cleared, Paul and his men deactivated their personal shields.
“Not nearly as effective as in our world...” Gurney observed, a graze on his arm showing that not only did the slow knife pierce the shield- but enough fire power did too.
“Omni suggested as much...” Paul said analytically. Duncan, running his swords once more through the skull of one of his fallen foes, announced, “swords work just as well however”.
Gurney chuckled, cleaning off the few flecks of blood that had got upon his boots.
“You did what you could for them Paul. They were black-hearts, one and all.”
Paul looked at him with hard eyes, “No Gurney. I knew they would be moved to action with that offer. I wanted them open when I slew them. This place has no law. Here, the knife is the judge of men and the desert is their executioner.”
He paused and Gurney nodded in dark understanding, “Collect their water- whatever they have on them then we will bury them in their holes. Though we must do it in a fashion that will let others see their failure- a warning to other bandits in the region.”
His voice was icy despite the desert winds. The three set to work and soon had all fourteen corpses buried with their heads sticking out of the sand, a knife planted in one, and their six-shooters and bandoleers laid out before each of their heads. Carved into the shorn head of one was a single world, a word of power.
Muad'dib
Soon the sands gave way to badlands and the badlands gave way to scrag and crags. Dismounting in true Fremen fashion, Paul and his companion disembarked and the sandworm sunk back, impossibly, below the surface to sleep off it’s confinement at Paul’s hands.
Somewhere on the horizon, across the great scragland, Paul laid eyes upon a ramshackle town of low structures. This was where he was due to arrive, though when he set out he knew it not. His mount gone, he settled into his easy traveling stride that allowed him to effortlessly travel for days at a time across the desert. While the desert had been moist compared to the Arrakis of his memories he did his best to conserve his body’s water. To a Fremen it could be equated to life. His stillsuit, fitted in deep desert fashion, was more than a match for the temperature here. Still, Paul could not resist the urge to dig the roots of one of the scrag plants up and scrape the moisture from its roots- replenishing a degree of his body’s moisture by chewing the roots and helping his friends do the same.
The, something tipped him off to danger. He could not speak to what it was, but he could feel it sure as day. He flickered backwards, his body collapsing impossibly and snaking to it’s target, crysknife drawn.
The clicking of firearms cocking filled the air and his men raised their weapons- Duncan his sword and Gurney his oversized lasgun. Paul had slipped the distance between himself and a man with a gun with the weirding way- his arm wrapped around the man’s gun arm in a binding gesture and his crysknife pressed to the man’s throat from behind. Paul knew not how the 12 men had snuck up on him and his companions but here they were...
“Y’all better drop ‘em fancy guns an’ swords boys. Might hurt someone wid’ ‘dem.”
Neither of his men moved. These bandits, at least that what seemed reasonable to Paul at the moment, were softer men than the likes of Gurney Halleck and Duncan Idaho and it seemed almost an insult that they lay down their arms to such wet-behind the ears men. Sure, they looked “hard”- bandito bandanas covering the lower parts of their face, stubble and all, and large hats atop their heads, but they did not stand like trained killers. They were arrogant and wild- not trained and sincere in their murderous intent. A true killer would have taken out two of Paul’s party then asked their question of the third so there would be no chance of the three overtaking them. They were perhaps better trained in bravado than in killing and Paul had no doubt he could slit three of their necks before they pulled the trigger.
When they saw that Paul and his men would not drop their weapons, the one who spoke grew sour.
“No don’t be like that! It’s a fair trade! You ate our ‘delicious’ crops and you gotta’ pay ‘fer them!”
Paul hoped this was intended as a jest as it was the worst lie he’d ever heard.
“I will offer you a deal in counter, one we hope you refuse- for once drawn a crysknife cannot be re-sheathed unless it has tasted blood. You see, the blade, when unfixed, needs some degree of moisture to maintain its edge and- as I have drawn it I would not like to waste my blood upon such a... unfortunate misunderstanding.”
“Oh! So the body speaks!” The fat-lipped man who had so pathetically lied to him before exclaimed in mock amusement. “What is this oh-so-generous offer?”
Paul shot him a glance with his blue in blue eyes, pressing the knife against he bandit’s neck a little harder, drawing the tiniest drop of blood from his hostage’s neck. It rolled down his neck like perspiration, and mingled with his body’s water that had already left it in fear.
“You leave with your lives, leaving your guns and your ammunition at our feat, and blood will not be spilt. You may retrieve them once we are far enough away.”
Paul could see what appeared to be small holes with tarps cast aside. That was how they had snuck up on them- an ambush. This must be one of the main roads traveled by those entering the city. Still- he had checked the path ahead and had not seen them. The tarp looked odd- marked with queer symbols and etchings that resembled writing. He would have assumed it was some sort of technology but his mind told them that it was some sort of symbolic language. Magic? Something “psychic”? He could not truly tell- this world was still foreign to him and his mentat facilities needed more information.
The bandits began to laugh, great belly-laughs that shook their forms. Even his hostage nervously giggled.
“Oy- shitheads. Do yer’self some math-o-mathics! We outnumber you by-”
A low hum pierced the air, followed by one more. Vibrations that would have called a worm in the wilderness but here called nothing but the reaper.
Shots rang out and a man’s voice screamed as Paul slit his hostage’s throat. The dust kicked up by the bullet storm was immense but was pierced by a lasgun shaving off limbs and heads. Within the dust Duncan’s sword flicked in and out of the men, just as deadly as Gurney’s lancing laser. Paul slipped from target to target, wasting no energy as he plunged his dagger into their chests and other vital places.
When the dust cleared, Paul and his men deactivated their personal shields.
“Not nearly as effective as in our world...” Gurney observed, a graze on his arm showing that not only did the slow knife pierce the shield- but enough fire power did too.
“Omni suggested as much...” Paul said analytically. Duncan, running his swords once more through the skull of one of his fallen foes, announced, “swords work just as well however”.
Gurney chuckled, cleaning off the few flecks of blood that had got upon his boots.
“You did what you could for them Paul. They were black-hearts, one and all.”
Paul looked at him with hard eyes, “No Gurney. I knew they would be moved to action with that offer. I wanted them open when I slew them. This place has no law. Here, the knife is the judge of men and the desert is their executioner.”
He paused and Gurney nodded in dark understanding, “Collect their water- whatever they have on them then we will bury them in their holes. Though we must do it in a fashion that will let others see their failure- a warning to other bandits in the region.”
His voice was icy despite the desert winds. The three set to work and soon had all fourteen corpses buried with their heads sticking out of the sand, a knife planted in one, and their six-shooters and bandoleers laid out before each of their heads. Carved into the shorn head of one was a single world, a word of power.
Muad'dib
![[Image: AXsJ8wI.png]](http://i.imgur.com/AXsJ8wI.png)