He hears the wild dogs bay at the moon. He envies them, sometimes, on nights like this when the moon turns the sand white as snow. He envies their freedom and the simplicity of their lives. He loves and hates them. He is reminded of his home in the desert, of his wild people the Davke, and is ever aware of the ache in his heart. He recalls the wild dogs he watched in his youth. Many others his age hunted them for honor and new gear from their speckled hides, but never Jahin. He would watch them from afar, observing their interactions and daily life. In his opinion, it was not so very different than the Davke. They were survivors, living and fighting day to day, never a day beyond.

On this particular night, when the moon is full and pregnant overhead and the summer air is sweet and cool, he cannot resist the temptation of their wild calls. Jahin leaves his post on the northernmost tower, nodding briefly to the young guard pacing the walls between the towers.

While it isn't his shift for night duty, Jahin finds it difficult to sleep in his grand regent chambers (even though he removed most of the lavish luxuries that had once furnished the room). There is nothing in the room but a simple straw mat, a wobbly wooden desk with his half-hearted attempts at learning to write, and a dusty bookshelf stocked with simple books for beginners. Despite the simplification of his quarters, he desperately misses the glittering stars overhead, the hard ground beneath him, and surprisingly, the ever-present danger of an unwelcome visitor, like a scorpion, sharing his bed.

After chatting with the gate guards briefly, he slips out of Solterra palace, shouldering his spear and breathing in the night air gratefully. As soon as he is out of sight of the palace walls, he breaks into a joyous, unrestrained buck and a hard run, his hooves flashing through the desert sand like lightning.

He follows the howls of the wild dogs, running until sweat lathers his skin like sea foam and his lungs are on fire. The wild dogs' raucous yips and barks have brought him to the Oasis. He slows to a leisurely jog, and then at last a walk, pricking his ears forward. Excited snarls and squeals from the dogs cause him to pause--something is happening, something unlike the playful howls from before. They’ve found something--or someone.

The dogs have fled before he can see what their sudden excitement is about. The scene he comes upon is a sad one, but not uncommon. Some unruly pups have found the nest of desert cobras, and from the looks of the crushed egg remnants, an unhatched nest. He sighs softly. The circle of life is harsh, unforgiving, and particularly brutal in Solterra. Only the strong survive here.

The sun’s faint rays of dawn are just beginning to crest the horizon. He is about to turn away (his throat burns and yearns for a drink of fresh oasis water) but a venomous hiss startles him to attention, and against his better judgement, he takes a few steps forward curiously and peers into the scattered remains of the nest.

A survivor.

She is beautiful. He doesn’t know how, but he instantly knows the little snake (more worm than snake, really) is female. She composes her pale body with pride, her beautiful scaled hood unfurling like an elegant, blooming rose, even though she can hardly hold herself up. She stares up at him fearlessly with intelligent rosy eyes that gleam like the pale, blushed streaks of dawn staining the star-studded overhead.

“Hello, little one.” She blinks slowly in response, as if evaluating if he is worthy of her presence.  He does not know what prompts him to speak to a snake, but he feels inexplicably moved by her bravery and resilience. Such a remarkable creature deserves a naming, at the very least. “Good-bye and good luck, Sahar.” Just before dawn, a fitting name for such an exquisite little snake. She hisses in response, blinking contentedly.

Pleased with this strange interaction, he finally turns away and steps down the sandy path to the pool’s edge. He drinks deeply, quenching his thirst and feeling rejuvenated from the cold, clear water. A hissing noise at his side makes him choke.

Coughing and gasping for air, he turns to find the little white snake curled placidly beside his front hoof, staring up at him with unblinking, expectant eyes. He lowers his muzzle, distinctly aware that he is easily within striking distance of the newly hatched snake. But she does not strike him. Instead, she flickers her tongue in approval and moves towards him. He does not dare to even breathe as she slithers up the middle of his face and nestles in his mane between his ears.

Surely stranger things have happened in the desert, he thinks absentmindedly, trapped in a bizarre state of astonished bewilderment as she hisses happily from her new perch. The only thing he can think at the moment is that he is extremely grateful that a sandwyrm baby did not imprint on him, because those things give him the heebee-jeebies.




J A H I N
look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known