Ciaran Zhaoiani
daughter of nylah zhaoianas and willow

Not long after her foray on the boundary of the ocean, along the edge of the new world – and directed towards the north east, in a path that would lead her to Solerra – Ciaran went. Karis was not inclined to follow her into a desert but he was loathe to abandon her, and so he would tolerate the heat. She couldn’t push him out of his comfort zone forever, but she had a task at hand. She’d been given a name, a home, and a new title, one that would likely give her father a conniption if he’d heard she’d agreed with being named a warrior. While not a true fighter at heart, Ciaran was adept and she enjoyed her tracking more, and preferred being more skilled in gathering words and thoughts of others. A scout, a spy, call it what you will. She’d learned when she was young she was not strong enough to fight.

So quick and nimble she’d learned to be, like her grandsire – and she enjoyed the elevations of the worlds. She would miss her mountain home, but here she’d find and make another, even if only for this span of her lifetime.

Here, Karsi’s voice was silenced. His ability to vocalise had vanished the moment they had left Caeleste, but inside her head he was as strong as ever.

We are here, he speaks to her. Ciaran nods her head once, as the walk over the strange red lands – far from everything she’d once known and been comfortable with.

“We are,” she says. She slows, and Ciaran looked around, running an eye over him. Karsi looked mildly uncomfortable, but not as bad as she thought he would be. Still, she kept him moving until she found him shade while she stood in the sunlight, a glittering beacon against the sea of sand rising and falling like waves on the ocean – but there was a smattering of green and the oasis was ahead.

Ciaran felt a smile touch her lips.

How far she was from where she’d come – from a palace made of ice and a world in constant snow to this place, heat and sunlight – and she felt so far away from everything, even though it was all here and now.

It was a strange feeling.

But one that would fade in time. 

I GOT A TENDENCY TO SELF-DESTRUCT,
& A SOFT SPOT FOR THE FILTH.

Above him, the sun is an unwavering presence.

It beats upon him with crippling heat that leaves streaks of sweat upon his dark hide, his tangled mane a heavy weight against his neck, and yet the man doesn’t move from where he stands. His sides move every so often, the imperceptible inhale and exhale of a life still lived, the skin tightening against the ribs that were glaringly obvious; he looks as though he might fall over at the next gust of wind, and yet, like he has not moved for centuries with the dust that collects and dulls his coat to a matte finish.

From his vantage point, he can see much of the desert unfolding before him -- the Court that rose up suddenly from the never-ending dunes, cloaked in a heat-haze in the distance; the Oasis, a promising daydream to the weary traveler; and of course, the treacherous slopes that led up into the canyon walls where he made his home.


He sees the pair likely long before they see him, and it prompts him into sudden movement, a long, swinging stride that eats the sand beneath him, that carries him on a trajectory meant to intercede, to impact and collide with theirs, and he bares his teeth in a grim smile as he does so.

“You seem lost, child.” It is blunt, snapped out as he halts abruptly before them, little consideration given to the large bear that tagged at her heels except for the briefest of glances. “Little girls made of ice don’t belong in a desert.”