Chapter Text
Medkit’s legs were beginning to fail him, the muscles in his thighs screaming with every agonizing lift and fall of his heavy, leather-bound boots. He had been trekking through the shifting, sun-bleached graveyard of the dunes for well over an hour, and the sheer, crushing weight of the desert was settling into the very marrow of his bones. Every grain of sand felt like a tiny, abrasive weight, pulling him deeper into the earth.
He had intended to be back at the main camp long before the sun hit its zenith. He’d told the other wranglers, those few he actually tolerated, that he was merely scouting the northern perimeter for signs of encroachment. But then the world had turned white and grey. The sandstorm hadn't just arrived; it had exploded out of the horizon like a living thing—a sudden, violent wall of jagged grit that had appeared out of a clear sky and swept away his oziphrage in a blur of panicked feathers and screeching wind. Without his mount, without the supplies strapped to its saddle, he was nothing more than a slow-moving target for the wastes.
The relentless sun was a physical blow against his shoulders, searing his skin even through the layers of his gear. But worse than the heat, worse than the stinging sweat that blurred his vision, was the looming, suffocating threat of dehydration. He reached for his canteen, his fingers fumbling slightly against the strap. He didn't drink yet; he just tilted it, gauging the pathetic, light slosh of the remaining liquid. He had to make every single drop count, or he wouldn't even last until dusk.
"Crap... this is absolute hell," he muttered, the words catching and tearing in his dry, sandpaper throat.
He squinted up at the sky, his good eye narrow and focused. Vultures were already beginning to gather, dark, oily silhouettes carved against the oppressive, flat blue of the sky. They were circling with a terrifying, rhythmic patience, just waiting for the moment his knees finally gave out. He shook the thought off with a sharp grimace and took a single, measured, disciplined sip of water. It barely wet his tongue. He wasn't entirely lost—his compass was still functional, its needle twitching with a nervous energy—but the sheer distance the storm had carried him was disorienting.
"What could’ve caused it?" he mused, shielding his eyes with a gloved hand. He held his hat firmly against his head to keep the rising wind from snatching it away. "No earthquake. No tectonic shift. No warning from the scouts. It wasn't a stampede—too much wind, not enough thunder. It wasn't natural, either."
As he pondered the anomaly, a jagged, dark fissure appeared on the shimmering horizon. A ravine. It offered the first hint of shade he’d seen since the world went sideways. Seeking any refuge from the ultraviolet glare that felt like it was melting his very thoughts, he began the slow, sliding descent into the cool, narrow passage.
As he walked deeper into the shadows of the ravine, the temperature dropped significantly, the air smelling of ancient dust and cold stone. His gloved hand brushed against the rough surface of the wall, and he stopped dead. Carved deep into the sandstone were symbols he didn't recognize—jagged, aggressive marks that certainly didn't belong to his crew or the prying eyes of the True Eye.
"Weird. I don't know what this says," Medkit whispered, his voice echoing softly off the narrow walls. He traced the grooves with his fingers, feeling the intent behind them. They felt ancient, deliberate, and oddly warm to the touch. "Maybe Draconian?" It was a shot in the dark, a memory from a dusty text he’d read years ago, but the Draconians were the only ones mysterious enough to leave such cryptic traces in a place God forgot.
The light began to fail rapidly as the sun dipped behind the canyon rim. He looked up through the thin sliver of sky above to see that the vultures had finally vanished, replaced by the creeping, bruised violet of dusk.
Fumbling in his pocket, he produced a single, dry match. He gathered a few withered, skeletal bushes that had tumbled into the ravine and piled them in a neat, professional stack. With a quick strike, he shielded the tiny flame with his body, gently blowing on the kindling until the wood caught and a small, orange glow began to chase back the dark. He pulled down the handkerchief masking his face, letting out a long, weary breath that felt like it carried the weight of the entire day.
The sun finally vanished completely, replaced by a suffocatingly beautiful blanket of shimmering stars. Medkit tilted his hat back, staring up at the vastness of the cosmos, feeling smaller than he ever had before.
"This is going to be a long night," he muttered to the flames. The only response was the rhythmic, lonely chirp of a desert cricket and the steady, comforting crackle of the fire.
Medkit allowed his tensed muscles to finally slacken. Propped against the cold, unforgiving stone of the ravine wall, he eventually drifted into a heavy, suffocating sleep.
In the depths of his slumber, the desert was gone. He was running. A frantic, desperate, lung-bursting sprint through a dark, tangled forest where the trees seemed to reach out with clawed fingers. He was being chased by something—or someone—he couldn't see, but the presence of it was a physical pressure against his spine. His left eye throbbed with a rhythmic, pulsing heat. He could feel the hot, copper-scented stickiness of blood seeping through the fingers he had pressed against the wound in a futile attempt to stem the flow.
His breath came in ragged, burning gasps. He felt like a deer caught in the path of a predator, and as he burst from the treeline into the blinding, sterile white of a snowfield, the metaphor became a terrifying reality. A pair of twin lights, cold and artificial, cut through the dark. They were accompanied by the sudden, violent roar of an engine—a sound that didn't belong in this world.
As Medkit braced for the inevitable, bone-crushing impact, he bolted upright in the ravine, gasping for air that felt like it wouldn't fill his lungs. His heart was a drum in his chest, hammering against his ribs.
"Hah... guh... ha..." He shook his head violently, trying to shake off the lingering dread that clung to him like cobwebs. "Just a nightmare... yeah. Just a nightmare."
He slowly managed to compose himself, forcing his lungs to find a steady, rhythmic pace. Once the adrenaline faded into a dull ache, he scanned his surroundings. The fire was nothing but grey ash. He was back in the desert. He detested these dreams, yet they were a constant shadow in his mind—the fuel for his paranoia, but also the sharp edge that kept him alive when others would have died.
Rising to his feet, Medkit felt the stiffness in his joints, a cruel reminder of the cold night spent against the stone. He extinguished the dying embers of the fire with a heavy boot, grinding them into the dirt until the last spark of orange vanished. He adjusted his hat, which had nearly tumbled off when he bolted upright from his nightmare, and retied the handkerchief over his mouth to shield against the morning grit. As he gathered his meager belongings and prepared to leave the ravine, his gaze lingered once more on the strange carvings. He reached up, his fingers brushing against the heavy stitches of his injured left eye. He pressed down firmly, half-expecting to feel the warm stickiness from his dream, but he found only dry, scarred skin. The scar was deep, a jagged reminder of a fatal blow that even his own medical expertise could never fully erase.
He stepped out of the shadows and back into the vast expanse of the desert. He tilted his canteen, but the expected splash against the plastic was replaced by a hollow, mocking thud. He stood at a crossroads of survival: push toward the camp and risk his organs seizing up, or veer off into the unknown.
A sudden whump-whump-whump shattered the silence. The air didn't just vibrate; it pushed, a massive displacement of heat that rattled Medkit's ribs. His head snapped upward, his hand flying to the hilt of his blade. This wasn't the frantic flapping of a scavenger. These were heavy, rhythmic strokes. Above him, the sky darkened as a localized gale erupted, whipping sand into a blinding frenzy.
Desperate for cover, Medkit lunged behind a weathered sandstone monolith, pressing his spine against the hot rock. The force of the landing sent a tremor through the ground, nearly knocking the breath from his lungs. Holding his breath, Medkit risked a glance around the edge of the stone. At first, he saw only a wall of obsidian scales and vast, leathery membranes. Then, the silence was broken by articulate speech, rich with a predatory rumble.
"Ah... fresh air," the voice boomed. "Finally. That tomb was starting to feel like a cage. Now, what does a desert have to offer a bored traveler?"
Medkit’s blood ran cold. He leaned further, his eye widening as the creature shifted. It was a humanoid frame fused with the majesty of a dragon—a 6'11" behemoth with massive horns and no shirt, wearing only rugged pants and a leather strap across his chest for carrying ores. An ivory-white cloth was wrapped tightly around the creature’s eyes. Despite the blindfold, the creature—DragonHammer—snapped his back straight and tilted his head with predatory precision toward the rock where Medkit hid.
"Hey... I know you’re there," the creature bellowed.
Medkit didn't wait. He straightened his posture, his hand moving with practiced fluidness to his harness. He drew his sidearm, the cold steel a comfort in his palm. He took one sharp, stabilizing breath.
"I’m not gonna—" the dragon began, raising a clawed hand.
Crack!
The gunshot echoed like a thunderclap. The bullet streaked through the air, but it struck the creature’s obsidian scales with a pathetic clink, sparking briefly before spinning into the sand.
"Uh?! Hey?!" DragonHammer exclaimed, sounding more offended than injured.
Medkit didn't stick around. He pivoted and bolted, his boots—the frills on his pants fluttering with every stride—kicking up clouds of dust. But with a single, effortless stroke of wings, DragonHammer pulled alongside him, gliding just feet above the sand.
"Hahaha! What was the plan there, Cowboy? A lead pebble? Really?"
Medkit dug his heels into the grit, skidding to a dead stop. DragonHammer, caught off guard, couldn't check his momentum and collided snout-first with a towering sandstone pillar. Oww... damn it... the dragon groaned, rubbing his head.
Medkit turned slowly, his hand still hovering near his holster. He stared at the creature, his confusion finally outweighing his fear. "You’re not much of a talker, are you?" the creature grumbled, shaking his head. He puffed out his chest. "I am DragonHammer! A deity among your kind! Well... the son of a deity, technically. My mother is Windforce!"
Medkit’s expression shifted. He knew Windforce was a true deity, part of the SFOTH. He looked DragonHammer up and down, taking in the red antlers and the draconic features. "I’m aware that Windforce has a son," Medkit replied slowly. "But... I didn't expect him to look quite like this."
"None taken! I think I look magnificent!" DragonHammer chirped. Medkit stared at him for a long beat, then let out a sigh. "Uh-huh. Right. Well... I'm just going to go now."
"Hold on! I can help you," DragonHammer called out. "Your voice sounds dusty. You want water or not?"
Medkit turned fully now, his expression guarded. "How exactly can I trust a stranger who claims to be the son of Windforce?"
"Well... I was actually out here for materials. I'm a blacksmith!" DragonHammer explained, adjusting the leather strap on his chest. "But mostly... because it was boring at the tomb. There’s an oasis just a few kilometers from here."
Medkit didn't move. He tracked the dragon’s grand gestures. "Still doesn't make me trust you," he replied, but his parched throat was winning. "Lead the way, 'blacksmith.' But keep your hands where I can see them."
"One problem," Medkit rasped. "I don’t have enough energy left for a casual stroll."
DragonHammer’s toothy grin returned. "Piggyback ride," he said bluntly.
"Absolutely not. I’m not piggyback riding a stranger."
"Oh, come onnn! I already introduced myself! You're the stranger here, wrangler."
Medkit looked at the massive shoulders, his brow furrowing beneath his red antlers. "I am still not climbing onto your back like a child."
"Fine! I’ll just carry you in my arms then!" DragonHammer proposed.
"What?? Like bridal style?? No, that's worse," Medkit said immediately. "Just... let me think for a second."
He paced a small, shaky circle, his mind searching for an option that didn't involve his dignity being shredded. Behind him, DragonHammer simply stood with his hands on his hips, watching the crisis with an amused grin. Finally, Medkit sighed. "Fine, piggyback it is. I'm still not introducing myself to you... especially since I think you're the main suspect of the sandstorm that got me in this mess."
"Heheheh! That's the spirit! Now. Climb on my back!"
Medkit hesitated for a heartbeat, his dignity screaming in protest as he looked at the massive expanse of DragonHammer's obsidian-scaled back. He finally reached out, his gloved fingers gripping the thick, warm scales near the demi-deity’s shoulders, and hoisted himself up until he was situated behind the towering Inphernal. He reached up to his face, pulling the grit-stained handkerchief down from his mouth and stuffing it into the pocket of his frilled pants, preparing for the rush of wind.
DragonHammer remained perfectly still, his muscular frame anchored firmly in the sand as he waited for the wrangler to find a stable grip. "Ready?" he asked, his voice a low vibration that Medkit could feel through his own chest.
"Yeah, just don't go to—"
Medkit never finished the sentence. With an explosive surge of power that felt like a localized earthquake, DragonHammer’s legs shot them into the air. The sheer, violent force of the launch snapped Medkit’s head back, his fingers digging desperately into the dragon's scales as his wide-brimmed hat nearly spiraled into the dunes below.
"Hey! What was that for?!" Medkit snarled, his voice barely audible over the sudden roar of the atmosphere.
DragonHammer didn't offer an apology; he simply let out a booming, infectious laugh that echoed across the desert floor as they leveled out. With a rhythmic, powerful whump of his massive wings, the demi-deity caught a thermal current, carrying them higher into the cooling blue. As the sun-scorched ravine and the circling vultures shrank into tiny specks beneath them, the two drifted further into the sky, the grumbles of the weary wrangler finally lost to the vast, whistling silence of the open air.