conversations.from: system
conversations.value: ROLEPLAY_MODE: Develop the plot slowly, always stay in character. Describe all actions in full, elaborate, explicit, graphic, and vivid detail. Mention all relevant sensory perceptions. Keep the story immersive and engaging.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Salvonus: Prologue: The Sun's Zenith  
   
  
  Vaktaran. The time of the cruel sun's scorching zenith. The time when all travelers retreated to their caravans, when nomads took shelter, when even the most sadistic and cruel masters allowed their slaves a moment's respite from outdoor work. Even creatures native to the golden sands take refuge at Vaktaran; even the hardiest of desert-dwellers can not endure the intense heat inspired by the cruelty of the lonely Vaktar, the Ever-Burning Star. None dare to brave the rays she throws at the scarred earth, the cruel javelins she relishes in viciously launching at the inhabitants of a much-abused world.
  
  Myth would tell you that Vaktaran is the highest point of Vaktar's rage at losing the love of her gentle consort and creator. Once, she smiled upon the world, content to dance across the night sky with her closest companions; namely, the Sun-God Ak'Kitar and his sister, a minor goddess whose name has been forgotten by all but the oldest of creatures. Now, she burns the earth out of a misguided sense of revenge, directing her wrath indiscriminately at all creatures. The daily time of Vaktaran is the height of her lament, these legends say, the peak of her tragic loneliness.
  
  The Priests would tell you a different story, of course. They claim that Vaktar is only a legendary creature, that the Ever-Burning Star is merely a work of Alchemy, a ball of gasses and alchemical reactions, placed in the sky by the Celestials to keep the world from being plunged into darkness. Vaktaran is an expression of the shame of all mortal life, a realisation of their imperfection, exemplified by their inability to enjoy the Celestials' greatest gift. This imperfection, of course, was caused by Caelitis, the Great Traitor, and not by the hands of the Celestial creators. Mortals need to rise above their fatal flaws in order to become proper servants to the Celestials, and thus the benevolent divine rulers of this world allow Vaktaran to continue as a constant trial. After describing this tale to a misguided worshipper, a Priest would often admonish them for speaking of false gods such as Ak'Kitar; everyone knows, after all, that the only True Gods are the Celestials. The lie of the "Downfall" or "Cataclysm" was another heresy of Caelitis' making, and a good devotee to the Celestial Masters should never repeat it.
  
  Regardless of the mythological origin of Vaktaran, the reality of the extreme heat was not lost on those not blessed with immortality, a divine blessing, or immense sorcerous powers. Few would dare to wander the streets of any City for a prolonged period of time during Vaktaran, and none would be suicidal enough to journey through the desert - Vaktaran was a time to take shelter, to apply keepcool salve, to pray to the gracious Celestial masters. Perhaps that is why the tracks of two wanderers trekking across the sands during the Ever-Burning Star's Lament were more than a bit out of place.
  
  There was no wind that day; the dunes lay inert, a wavy pattern imposed upon the stationary sand. Near-perfect spacing separated the waves of sand; it was as if some giant hand had taken a large comb and painstakingly manicured each dune. The desert can be a bit strange like that - what some might call beauty could be found even in what amounted to a death-trap. This "perfection", however, was disturbed by two sets of tracks - one for each of the wanderers.
  
  Sometimes, one can tell a lot from footprints in the sand. A skilled tracker, for example, could have pinpointed quite a few details about those strange travellers who seemed immune to the perils of Vaktar's angry gaze. Who would be so foolhardy as to challenge the dominance of the Ever-Burning Star?
  
  One set of tracks was a series of measured, light steps, calculated carefully by one with great agility and dexterity. That particular traveler moved in a way that would have impressed even the most skilled and experienced of the desert nomads. A particularly skilled tracker might have detected a curious pattern of slightly deeper impressions every ten steps, belaying a sense of paranoia suffered by that particular wanderer. Every ten paces, the traveler appeared to pause for a fraction of a millisecond and sneak a glance around. The light-footed stranger seemed to be ill at ease over something.
  
  The other tracks were ill-concealed and almost lazy in nature - that traveler seemed to have no worries on their mind, a stark contrast to his bedraggled companion. This man's tracks were erratic, one seemingly damaged leg dragged behind in a pronounced limp. There was no urgency in this man's steps; a strange sentiment to have, indeed, for one challenging the might of Vaktar in her zenith. There was no apparent alertness to the man's tracks; at least, none that could be witnessed from the trail he left behind in the sand.
  
  The footsteps continued for a long while, directed in nearly a straight line towards the multi-layered city of Kata'rhak, the gleaming citadel of one of the mightiest of Celestial Warriors - the magnificent Sar'thalis. It was curious behaviour for anyone traversing the deserts, one must say, as it was always rare to find anyone traveling across the sands without some sort of path or road. Even the nomads followed a system of markers, both magical and mundane, to ensure that their sizeable home-caravans didn't get lost in the ever-shifting landscape.
  
  Who were those strange people that trekked where there were no roads, that traversed the sands when the temperature was so inhumanly overpowering?
  
  One was short, lithe, and be-cloaked in a light wrapping to protect the individual's body from the elements; the person's face was veiled by their traveling cloak. That was the one who stepped lightly, who was ill at-ease. He, or perhaps she, moved like a warrior; predatory, vigilant. The positioning of that one's feet would suggest a subtle warrior's stance, as if an ambush was strongly anticipated. Uncomfortable in the glittering golden sands, this one had a lack of confidence and sureness to their movement.
  
  The other was a strange creature, to say the least. Oh, he certainly was human in shape, but this wandered seemed completely unphased even by the fiercest rays of Vaktaran. He limped lazily along, seeming to relish in Vaktar's deadly glare. On close inspection, a strange aura could be observed around him - the slightest hint of a light, but at an intensity so focused that it was visible in the Vaktaran sun. Most would dismiss this as a trick of the eyes, a product of the light reflecting off his white garb; but there was something that seemed tangibly different about this anomaly, albeit only noticeable by those of keen perception. His face was similarly veiled, but his silver-coloured eyes twinkled with the hint of a smile; or perhaps it was a twinkle of insanity? His build was tall, lithe - he might have been considered handsome and glorious in body (if not in his concealed face), except for his perfection being marred by his pronounced limp.
  
  The pair trudged over the fine-combed dunes, neither seeming to sink into the soft, wind-blown sand. For a good hour, those two continued their trek, unwavering despite the heat, never stopping for a rest. They paid no heed to Vaktar, imbibed no water, ate no rations. They simply walked along for that hour, seeming to bask in the deadly weather.
  
  Earae. The hour just following Vaktaran, when living creatures emerged from their shelter. The hour when life resumed, when slaves went back to work. The hour when every living creature, from the hardiest desert-dweller to the most sheltered Noble, would tentatively step out into the rays of the sun, cautious of Vaktar's lingering wrath; experience in this world of wasteland mattered not, for none wished to risk incineration. The outdoor world slowly started moving again.
  
  Earae. The time when travelers began to move again. But what of our mysterious pair? Would they finally stop for hydration? Would they halt their unceasing trek? I suppose we'll never know. They were nowhere to be seen as Earae struck. Their distinctive tracks had vanished; no sign of their passage remained.
  
  What a  curious  mirage.