Excerpt from "The Wandering Years"
This will eventually be a part of a chapter of DEMON called "The Wandering Years," which details some of the events that take place between the Demon's last mission and the beginning of "Echoes." I don't know where it will fit in; it might come in after "Law and Order." Anyhow, I felt like writing it. Here it is.
The change was gradual. The cold night slowly gave way to a hint of warmth from the rising sun, cool blues brightening into harsher browns and reds. The moon fell and the sun rose. A new day was dawning in the vast desert of Deamlar, half the world away from the lights and cobblestones of Kingston.
A man sits crosslegged on the sands. He is shirtless, wearing brown trousers and ripped, worn leather boots. His chest is brushed with light brown hair, and his back is covered with a patchwork of scars. He last shaved six weeks ago, and that was in a place many miles away; his hair is bound back in a tail. Once it was jet black, but it is starting to turn gray. He is thirty-three years old, but he could pass for forty.
His eyes open slowly at the light of the sun. He has been meditating for three hours, but he knows the morning light is a signal of the deadly heat that will follow. He uncrosses his legs and stands up, stretching and yawning, and turns back towards the rocky expanse behind him. His home, for now, is back there in a cave carved into the side of the cliff face. He has little in the way of possessions at the moment; some food, some clothes, a waterskin, and a dagger. The locals in the city nearby told him of a small oasis not far from the cave, so he has fresh water as well. He sleeps on the floor of the cave in the daytime and comes out to fill his waterskin, hunt and meditate in the night. He has been here a month now, and has not spoken a word since he set foot in the desert.
He comes to the cave and looks around, searching for something in the small piles of possessions he has littered around. He purses his lips and then shakes the thought away, moving towards his cloak, which he rests his head on while he sleeps. He lies down on the rock and closes his eyes. As always, he touches the black mark under his eye and feels a stab of regret somewhere in his chest.
And then, Argen sleeps.
The change was gradual. The cold night slowly gave way to a hint of warmth from the rising sun, cool blues brightening into harsher browns and reds. The moon fell and the sun rose. A new day was dawning in the vast desert of Deamlar, half the world away from the lights and cobblestones of Kingston.
A man sits crosslegged on the sands. He is shirtless, wearing brown trousers and ripped, worn leather boots. His chest is brushed with light brown hair, and his back is covered with a patchwork of scars. He last shaved six weeks ago, and that was in a place many miles away; his hair is bound back in a tail. Once it was jet black, but it is starting to turn gray. He is thirty-three years old, but he could pass for forty.
His eyes open slowly at the light of the sun. He has been meditating for three hours, but he knows the morning light is a signal of the deadly heat that will follow. He uncrosses his legs and stands up, stretching and yawning, and turns back towards the rocky expanse behind him. His home, for now, is back there in a cave carved into the side of the cliff face. He has little in the way of possessions at the moment; some food, some clothes, a waterskin, and a dagger. The locals in the city nearby told him of a small oasis not far from the cave, so he has fresh water as well. He sleeps on the floor of the cave in the daytime and comes out to fill his waterskin, hunt and meditate in the night. He has been here a month now, and has not spoken a word since he set foot in the desert.
He comes to the cave and looks around, searching for something in the small piles of possessions he has littered around. He purses his lips and then shakes the thought away, moving towards his cloak, which he rests his head on while he sleeps. He lies down on the rock and closes his eyes. As always, he touches the black mark under his eye and feels a stab of regret somewhere in his chest.
And then, Argen sleeps.