Krunner stretched out in the sunlight and sighed, enjoying the shine of the Aktan [1] in the few dawn hours before it starts burning. Funny, how the Caravans, sooo eager for their help in defending them, refused. Maybe there were too many of them? Whatever, if they want to be raided by Nubians they can be raided by Nubians, he knows that his Saturans would never raid Caravaneers; they remind them too much of themselves.
He chortled a bit.
Those uptight Zulappi! Why did Pharon ever imagine that he can deal, let alone trade with them, with anything other than force? That is all they know, the force of will, and the force of death. They are so uptight that he wouldn't want to poke them with a 10-foot long pole- they'll probably combust with fury that their bodies were contaminated by such a non-stone-like thing-a-majigy.
Of course, Pharon seems much more capable then he realized after he nearly died of drinking too much. The poor Cleric of Aktan downed nearly three barrels of beer before found face down in the fourth after he went home from the negotiations.
He sat up and stretched. No beer for him, or anyone in the Rangers. They must stay alert, wary, yes. Maybe half gets some the morning of a festival and half the evening, but those who don't drink must stay dry. Yawning, he pulled himself from the Prison of Aset and walked out of his hut.
There, he surveyed the small Ranger Camp. Fleet-footed rangers ran about silently in their flat-toed shoes, barely raising any dust and hard to see in their dusty hare-hide armor. Small groups of Patrols are returning form their nightly-watch on the border-Nubian bandits are taken care off, except those who attack the Caravaneers... whenever they save those punks the snarky merchants would run as if they were another band of bandits. Small huts hang over shallow pits where his men sleep lighty and where they have some cover from Akten's righteous fury under Aset's hide.
He goes to the Kitchen where the cook was cooking chow. Hunters ranged far and wide to catch and prepare a variety of game, while the skilled cook seasoned them over a smokeless fire. A whiff of the roasted meat, still tender inside, still caused him to wonder of the miracle of the highland herbs. Found in the deserts beside oasis, they seem to have concentrated the fury of Akten into their seeds and leaves, bursting with flavor and burning the tongue when eaten raw, while burning Aset's rot from even uncooked meat, while tenderizing meat which were cooked. Such seasoning had let them store much seasoned and smoked meat in case of visitors, or if their hunters have failed.
He took a leg of a hare, and gave an appreciative prayer. With the spirit of Dastes' spawn, he will run fast indeed to catch a wagon-full of reed mats going between two southern villages.
Hopefully he can get something soft between his achy back as Aset's cruel hide, and something shady between his achy sunburns and Akten's cruel light.
Time to dig in.
[1] The Golden Sun, boneheads. Now get back to work!
