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Though his travels have taken him many places, Drifter has never been somewhere quite as unwelcoming as the cracked mountain. Unbreakable miles upon miles of harsh, dry desert surround the mountain. At its base, the desert shifts from sand to snow; the sun disappears and the temperature drops, the winds howl and claw through even the thickest of cloaks .
Little else needs to be said; Drifter did not make the two-week long trek through sprawling deserts for the welcoming environment. What pulls his attention is the great, sprawling civilization nestled snug against the mountain, like a child tucked into its mother’s side. Ancient and immense, the ruined city possesses spiralling structures that stand above and below the sands, and a famed temple that serves as a threshold to the mountain that many surmise to be almost something holy, in their culture.
So it is suspected. The little information Drifter does know about the city and its people came from word of mouth and dusty, faded tomes. Despite his lack of knowledge, Drifter sets out on his trek with a goal to unearth the secrets of this civilization, armed with nothing but images of ancient glyphs sparkling behind his eyes.
Finding the mountain is easy enough. It stands against the horizon like a hunched giant, the rays of the setting sun peeking through its cracked summit like a beacon reaching into the sky. Drifter packs enough provisions to last him a month in the desert, marks his goal-
and walks.
On more than one occasion he passes the sun-bleached bones of other creatures, some bearing hooded capes and cowls that mark the unlucky profession of drifter- others who attempted the journey, but fell sadly short. The sight of a corpse half-buried in hot sand might have deterred anyone else, but to a blue-skin with nothing but drifting to his name, the remains are his landmarks.
After a certain distance, the sands empty. No bones litter the desert; his only companions are the rolling dunes and the ever-approaching figure of the mountain.
After three days of walking in the wasteland, Drifter comes across the first grave. More follow, until he walks through a garden of headstones, each with some mysterious glyph etched into their rounded tops. Beneath his feet, under the shifting sands, lie thousands upon thousands of people, their names forgotten alongside their language. Drifter records images of as many graves as he can, storing them in his faithful sprite to be reviewed later. More than once he finds himself sitting before a grave with heaviness in his heart, tracing an angular symbol with his fingers until the winds force him to move on.
After the graves, architecture appears; crumbling, ruinous structures tucked beneath the sands, eroded by wind and time. Drifter runs his hand across them, feels their heat through his gloves. His hand comes away dusted by red clay.
As Drifter trudges through slippery sands, weaving between graves and ruined structures, a strange sight greets him.
A more accurate description would be brushes up against his leg . Drifter jumps away in surprise, looking around for any animal brave enough to wander up to him, but instead of a small, scaly creature he sees a thin strip of vibrant red cloth. It hovers a few feet above the sands, and when Drifter reaches for it in curiosity, it comes to life. Intricate golden embroideries appear on its surface as his hand moves closer. As if reanimated by his presence, it swirls around his wrist, soft and warm, almost like it possesses life.
When he continues on his journey, the strange cloth creature remains in its place, swimming in small circles just above the sands. Drifter watches as its movements become less animated, as its glow disappears and it goes still.
The closer to the mountain Drifter wanders, the more of the small things he sees. They fly in close groups just above the sand, moving slow and lazy like fish being carried in a current. Once he approaches the cloth creatures come to life. They dance around him, glowing, almost as if expressing joy. The little strips of fabric puzzle Drifter, yet for some reason he finds them almost endearing.
After touching enough of the small creatures, Drifter discovers that they can lift him off the ground. Just a few inches, but the feat is enough to make him wonder; what are they? What was their purpose? They remain in their groups and never venture away from their places. In some way, they act almost like beacons, directing Drifter to his goal.
All he can do is follow them.
Slowly, the structures in the sand become less ruinous. Drifter discovers sandy murals forgotten on walls, telling countless histories of the civilization long-past. In these murals Drifter sees the small cloth creatures he encountered, alongside white-robed figures.
The creatures guide him to a crater in the desert, where he finds the first altar- after being carried an impressive distance by the little scraps of cloth. He observes the effigy standing before him, an imposing yet kind figure guarding the massive doorway before him. Drifter stares at the stone statue, and across his eyes flicker images of a heavenly figure robed in white, of glyphs and stars and a glowing mountain.
He shakes his head to drive away the overwhelming vision. His ears ring with a soft, comforting note as he crosses the threshold of the doorway, red stones hot beneath his feet.
Drifter stumbles across a bridge built of red cloth, obviously designed for a creature of a far lighter stature. He picks his way across a desert of pink sands, dotted by the remains of great, winged machines. He encounters a few more cloth creatures, larger and not unlike curious sea creatures. They swirl around him and sing in odd, warbled voices; they play and chase each other across the sands, but they always turn back to watch him pick his way carefully up the dunes, as if to make sure he’s still following.
They guide him to a tower that omits a harsh blue light and shudders and booms, as if thunder brews beyond its cold stone walls. Drifter records as much information about the still-somehow-functioning technology as he can before he moves on. When he reaches the top- after no small amount of climbing and slipping on dusty stone, nudged on by his new cloth companions- he sees the city.
Countless buildings reach like hands towards the pale evening sky. Their architecture appears complex, even from this distance, but high, crumbling walls shroud most of the city from view. Drifter needs to see the city, to lay his eyes upon what he has travelled so far to study. Perhaps if he scaled the wall…?
He’s half-formed some unstable plan involving several capes and heavy stones when something nudges his knees. Drifter squawks and falls back, his descent slowed by the cloth creature supporting his weight. Another one lifts up his legs, and they chirp merrily together before lifting him up and carrying him across the distance, over the wall.
Drifter hangs on for dear life as they fly low over the rolling sands, ducking and weaving to avoid obstacles. The city stretches for miles around them, made of domed buildings and arches half-buried in sand and in various states of disrepair, but some seem untouched by time.
He tugs at the cloth creatures to get them to stop, but they seem to have something else in store for him.
They set him down in a deep basin, with high columns and an enormous set of open doors leading underneath the city. He takes a deep breath, fighting down the apprehension that stills him. As he strides past the next altar he hears thunder.
Joined by his two cloth companions that are kind enough to carry him over any gaps, Drifter picks his way through forests of towering cloth, swaying in the stale air. Like the other cloth creatures, when he draws near enough they seem to gravitate toward him. They curl around him and glow, and when he leans his weight back against them they push him up along their long stalks, and guide him forward.
The cloth must have some predetermined plan, some goal set in their stitches that guides wanderers deeper and deeper into the ancient city. The most he can do for now is see where they carry him.
A sea-green light flickers on the sand. Drifter stares at it in curiosity. He glances at the high-vaulted ceiling, but there are no windows to create a perfectly circular beam of light. He stops, but his two cloth companions float ahead, chirping to one another. With an uneasy feeling in his gut, he squints into the darkness.
An enormous shape crawls through the air, like a snake. The hum of machinery shakes his bones. He calls out to the cloth creatures, to get them to stop, but it’s too late.
The circular light shifts from green to red. It dives through the darkness with a great roar, tearing through the two cloth creatures with a gut-wrenching noise. Drifter watches in horror as shreds of fabric drift to the ground, empty of whatever gave it life. A single eye trains on him through the darkness, a great hiss shakes the chamber and threatens to unbalance him. Drifter tenses as the machine glares at him, ready to dash out of the way of its strike.
It never comes. The light turns green again, and the machine moves on. With one last mournful glance at the remains of the unfortunate creatures, Drifter continues.
He reaches the end of the underground and steps onto a dias engraved with countless runes that glow in the low, cavernous light. They pulse under his feet as he steps towards the altar lying dormant before him. Visions flicker across his eyes, telling of a past long forgotten, of a greater purpose taking hold, of the stars reaching toward the sand and there forms a figure, garbed in red.
Drifter gasps and the vision scatters. With a renewed sense of purpose he hurries on, a soft note ringing in his ears.
The temple is more beautiful and vibrant than any dusty book could convey. A golden light fills the immense chamber like liquid, swirling around him and lifting him off the sandy floor as if he weighs nothing. Small cloth creatures swim in schools as he floats towards the surface, flowers made of fabric bob and twirl as he passes through them on his slow ascent.
Something stirs in the light below him. He looks down past his feet and watches as a massive shape looms towards him. It scoops him up, its fabric soft and warm beneath him, and carries him up, towards the surface. The large creature pauses at the surface, bellowing a deep note in farewell as he steps onto the staircase presented before him. Drifter turns and watches it descend once more, its absence bathing the temple in silence.
Glyphs engraved in white shine upon the walls, sharing a story lost to him. Beneath the glyphs, set into the walls, lie seven murals, carefully crafted long ago. They tell of a journey not unlike his own, through graves and across bridges and a sunken city, beset by the jagged shapes of machinery. The same red-robed figure takes his place in these murals, taking the same steps as he, separated by untold ages.
His attention strays to what comes next. The red figure kneels in defeat before the mountain, head bowed and beset by howling winds. Drifter turns away from the mural, towards the open doorway, where icy winds howl through carrying flurries of snow. He wonders if it would be wise to end his adventure here, to turn back and explore the city instead of trudging along a path determined long before he set foot here.
The alter glows. An ancient song pulses through him in one vibrant note, full of life and tugging him forward.
It pleads to him. See it.
Drifter walks passed the altar, his steps ringing out in the silent temple. Tell our story.
He pauses before the threshold, glancing down at the snow piling before his feet. His heart leaps into his throat.
In the snow are tiny, yet unmistakable, footprints.
Save them.
He dashes through the threshold, his surroundings becoming little more than a blur of white and gray as the temple abruptly ends and the mountain begins. The cold winds tug at his cloak and numb any exposed skin, but he ignores it, his mind set on the tiny red-robed figure and the goal given to him. More than once the winds become so fierce that they bowl him over, even through his dashes, but he grits his teeth and picks himself back up, resuming his tiring pace.
Overhead throngs of cloth creatures fly towards the summit. Their pilgrimage is waylaid by the hulking machines that tear through them like nothing. Drifter ignores them, focused on the tracks in the snow that lead him on. More than once he crosses the machine’s line of sight as they patrol the snow, scouring the mountain side for any remains of the cloth they hunt. They ignore him and swim overhead, leaving him to trudge through the snow piled up to his shins.
He emerges onto a staircase built into the side of the mountain and the fierce winds almost send him tumbling off the edge. Drifter grasps onto the rails and his touch melts the ice, only for it to freeze again. The wind dies down, allowing him a brief moment of respite, and he looks past the snow and ice and fog in time to see the end of a long trail of fabric disappear into the doorway. He calls out to them a moment too late.
He presses on, dashing across the icy path when the gale dies down. He trips through the doorway and the winds return, fierce and growling, whipping his half-frozen cloaks around. He shields his face with his arm against the shards of ice that prick at his skin and search the snowy slope before him.
There, a hunched figure, pressing its way up the mountain. Drifter stumbles after them, his body blurring with each dash, interrupted by the storm as it sends him careening to the side. He fights against it, regains his footing and hurries on, his voice lost beneath the crashing thunder.
It all stops. The winds die to a distant howl as clouds cover the glowing peak of the mountain. Drifter squints through the thick fog, his dashes becoming slower and slower as ice and snow weigh him down. He hurries after the traveller before him, watching in dread as they slow-
and stop-
-and fall.
Drifter covers the ground between them in three breakneck dashes, skidding to a halt and nearly falling flat on his face as he reaches them. They lie unconscious in the snow, red robes dyed white by ice, their face obscured by a screen of black cloth adorned with a strip of golden fabric running across their brow. He scoops them into his arms, unsurprised to feel that they weigh next to nothing, and tucks them against his chest, hoping to warm them with his own body heat. He shivers as the snow seeps into his clothes and soaks him. He would be of little use to them frozen, so he stands- despite his body’s protests- and drifts back down the mountain, clutching the sole remnant of a lost civilization in his arms.
He retraces his- their- steps, back to the low clearing where the machines had roamed, only to find them absent. Grateful, he shifts the shivering traveller in his arms, heading for the mouth of an icy cave he noticed during his mad dash to catch up with them. He sighs as he steps inside, free of the unforgiving wind, and head towards the blank mural tucked against the wall. He sits against the cold stone and bundles them up in his cloaks. Drifter feels the ice on their robes melting and sliding to the floor.
After a few hours floating in and out of unconsciousness, Drifter feels them stir. He shakes himself awake and loosens his hold on them. They make soft, musical noises, then slowly their eyes open, like two pinpricks of light.
They stare up at him. He stares back, equally at a loss. They shift and chirp at him, filling the cave with the sweet sound of their language. Drifter frowns and shakes his head, unable to understand them. They seem to droop and look off to the side, at the entrance of the cave.
Drifter frowns and tugs down his cowl, opening his mouth to ask them a question, but a glowing symbol on their chest catches his attention.
“What is this?” he asks, and at the sound of his voice they turn back towards him, their head cocked in curiosity. He points at the glyph on their chest, and after staring at his hand for a few moments, they glance down.
They chirp at him and the symbol brightens. They squirm, struggling against his hold, and he releases them. They float weightlessly to their feet and chirp and sing, dancing and twirling around him. Drifter chuckles and pushes himself up as they stop before him. “Er- you're welcome?” he says, perplexed by the intensity of their stare.
They drop into a crouch and leap into the air, their voice singing out in one beautiful note, almost like some long-forgotten instrument. Drifter watches in awe as they float to their feet and chirp again, gesturing behind him.
He turns around, and the mural that was previously blank is now filled, displaying an image of rows and rows of robed figures making their way up the mountain. Drifter glances over his shoulder at his companion, who observes him with an unreadable expression.
“Can you understand me?” he asks. Impossibly, they nod.
“Do you know what happened here? Why everything is in ruins?” They shrug, and Drifter supposes he can relate. Then they turn around and walk towards the entrance of the cave.
“Wait!” Drifter cries, grasping their cloak before they could go any further. “Why are you doing this? Why do you want to go back there?”
They sing, a high and desperate note, and tug against his hold. With a sick feeling in his stomach Drifter releases them and they dart away, pausing at the mouth of the cave to stare back at him.
“I was sent here to save you,” he says, though he hardly believes it himself. They gather their robes around themself and shift from foot to foot. “Don’t go,” Drifter pleads, taking a step toward them. They step back. “Come with me.”
They let out one last mournful chirp, then turn away and dart down the snowy hill, to face the mountain again. Drifter watches them leave, until he loses sight of them in the snow. Failure leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, and to hide his lost expression he replaces his cowl and walks in the opposite direction.
He retraces his steps through the lost civilization, stumbling through the sands, his path guided by only the moonlight shining overhead. Some of the gaps he must cross to return seem impossible, but he finds his way, this time without the help of some friendly cloth creatures. Shooting stars sometimes flash overhead, and each time he pauses to watch them, standing motionless as the sand swirls around his feet and the point of light above him leaves a bright trail across the cloudless night sky.
With nothing better to do, he follows them. He walks through the ruined civilization, the darkness of night fading into the pale gray of dawn. His limbs feel heavy and he stumbles every other step, but he won’t rest until he leaves this place behind.
Another star streaks by, cresting across the top of a dune marked by three stones and two strips of cloth fluttering in the early morning breeze. The star disappears, then moments later he hears a very faint thud.
Curiosity brings life to his exhausted body and he stumbles up the dune, slipping on the loose sand. As he reaches the top, his breath catches.
A familiar robed figure, swathed in white, sits between the endless dunes, their thin legs folded neatly beneath them. The sun catches on the sand, making each grain glitter like gold. Their robes possess intricate embroideries, golden shapes curling through the snow-white fabric with an unknown, yet significant, meaning.
“How-?” he begins, but they interrupt him with a soft chirp. With a breathless laugh he slides down the dune and tumbles across the coarse, hot sand, sprawling on his back beside them.
“Will you come with me?” he asks, with an imploring tug at the hem of their cloak. They peer down at him and chirp, the note fond and friendly to his ears. “I’ll take that as a yes.”