Princes of the Sands:
A conference of tribes, council if you will, gathered in a makeshift outpost near an oasis in the desert. Among the men are rulers of the clans and tribes from the entire region. As they wait, with their guards and horses, food and jewelry, the sun is setting. The dimming sky is clear as the moon and stars come out for the night, waiting and watching these great men sit, preparing for the final person to arrive. King Mukalla II of the Bahric.
“When is this man coming?” said an impatient man in a fancy headdress, shaking his head as he becomes angry with the waiting.
“He will be here,” said an older man in a hoarse voice “he always keeps his promises.”
As they argued over the importance of this meeting, and the need to call such a thing, the firelight broke the growing darkness and over the dunes the sounds of horses was heard. All the men stood, looking and listening for the noise. Behind the dunes the sun was barely lighting it, so as to silhouette Mukalla II when he and his horse topped it, in a most legendary fashion. Striking fear in the hearts of those who did not know him well and joy to those whom he considered friends.
The horsemen and their king rode slowly down the dunes and into the camp, where Mukalla dismounted his steed and walked to the elderly man, giving him a firm, warriors embrace. In the background a couple men were talking to each other, in another language from the one Mukalla and most of the men were speaking. Mukalla looked at them as they talked and walked over to them listening in.
“…this is the man that will bring us glory and wealth? Ha, I spit at his presence, he looks nothing like a warrior…”
The man stopped as Mukalla approached him, grabbing his shoulder firmly and pulling him closer.
“When disrespecting someone, be sure they cannot speak your language. You arrogant fool.” With his sentence finished, the men looking on in shock, Mukalla drew a knife and stabbed the mans thigh. “There will be no dissent among the ranks, boy, you will follow me to glory or take your own path to the grave. What say you?”
The man, clearly in stress and pain, bleeding from his leg and grunting furiously, said in a broken voice. “I am sorry…”
Mukalla slapped him with the back of his hand, knocking him to the ground. The man reached for Mukalla’s boot, looking up at him.
“For someone so eager to disrespect me, you certainly are quick to bow.”
Mukalla’s guards moved in to keep the other men of this group from potentially jumping him while he turned to talk with his allies and those who looked at him in fear. In a complete change of mood, Mukalla smiles and opens his arms.
“So…we have much to discuss!”