This is a mega WIP, rest in pepperonis.
Kashmistan is as pristine as the tales told of it beyond this desert prison state, picture-perfect right down to the specks of dust that almost fail to coat the ground. It's wellsprings were a thing to behold even in the past, sparkling water running quiet and clean throughout the streets and homes of the city, and that held true even before the caravan's well coughed up its own final, dusty breath. As far as you know, it's the only place left in all of the desert that still runs wet. The only place capable of sustaining life. A younger man bearing your name and face had once thought these carefully crafted creeks to be the most remarkable part of the city – before, of course, you stepped within its boundaries. Now, your attention is focused elsewhere.
Picture-perfect, right down to the specks of dust, indeed. It's the same Kashmistan you'd walked, a soldier, into a year ago. The very same... save for the obvious lack of life.
You'd call it a ghost town, but even ghosts are livelier than this. If you didn't blink, too, you'd think the city caught in time, untouched, unmoving. It feels like a replica of itself, without all of its lively vendors and playing children. Tragic, perhaps, for a person who had lived their whole life in that building, walked every commute down that street. But you were an outsider then, that baby-faced you, and three hundred sixty-five days have nothing to change the feeling of being a stranger in a strange land. Any other might have grieved. You, on the other hand, only make claims on what you came here for for before leaving this time locked ground.
It would be so easy to drink straight from the source – and your body, throat parched, skin cracked, begs you to set aside formality for the sake of a cool drink on another blistering day – but you don't let the crystal-clear liquid fool you. The citizen-less city; the souls of the dead that crawl from the dunes; the weary faces of the people back at the caravan; your own facade of apathy; it isn't safe to trust the sight of anything here in the desert, locked in by the Earth Witch's barrier.
That, too, would be so easy... but you know better than that.
The winds howl a louder tune than the morning by the time of your return to civilization, the gales strong enough to threaten the placement of your glasses on the bridge of your nose. It's a miracle that they've stayed in one piece the duration of your (imprisonment) stay. In truth, you don't think you'd be able to repair them if they didn't. You focus instead of those very lenses as the rough outline of tents form concrete images before your eyes – and just like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that still, your arrival is greeted with very little fanfare. It's a wonder how much of this is a testament to the old ways and how much of it is an echo of the disappearance of Kashmistan's street life. You suppose you wouldn't take too kindly to outsiders, either, after what had happened, though it's hard to think of yourself as much of a stranger with how much time you've come to spend here.
Fortune seems to be on your side, then, when someone deigns to talk to you beyond frost-covered pleasantries. The conversation you share still revolves more or less around small talk – how is the weather out there? still going back to the city? I could make trips like that in my day, but not anymore – but you've come to learn to take what you can get when it comes to the caravan. If you talk much longer, after all, your conversational partner is bound to begin talking in circles. (Their facade is so real you could almost fall for it; but these people don't really see you, nor do they really talk. The only one who could is -)
“Oh, Keith! Welcome back!”
The sun shines aggressively, bright enough to burn, hot enough to scald; in contrast, Niki's shine is radiant, her warmth a comfort, her smile as welcome a sight as water in Kashmistan. The others may fake smiles at you, lips strained tight against decaying old teeth, but the only one who has truly welcomed you into the life of the caravan (and not just today, but time and time again) is the girl in the braids who runs to catch up to you now. You've done nothing to earn her kindness, of course. Before the sand, before the winds, before the Barrier, people found themselves frustrated with you more than anything. But hers seems the kindness that takes effort to revoke, not gain, and so long as you don't turn feral like the beasts in the night, don't keep the water from the empty city all to yourself, you think she'll smile on and on until she's no longer the mouth to do it with. Until you've no longer the eyes to see it anymore.
Kashmistan is as pristine as the tales told of it beyond this desert prison state, picture-perfect right down to the specks of dust that almost fail to coat the ground. It's wellsprings were a thing to behold even in the past, sparkling water running quiet and clean throughout the streets and homes of the city, and that held true even before the caravan's well coughed up its own final, dusty breath. As far as you know, it's the only place left in all of the desert that still runs wet. The only place capable of sustaining life. A younger man bearing your name and face had once thought these carefully crafted creeks to be the most remarkable part of the city – before, of course, you stepped within its boundaries. Now, your attention is focused elsewhere.
Picture-perfect, right down to the specks of dust, indeed. It's the same Kashmistan you'd walked, a soldier, into a year ago. The very same... save for the obvious lack of life.
You'd call it a ghost town, but even ghosts are livelier than this. If you didn't blink, too, you'd think the city caught in time, untouched, unmoving. It feels like a replica of itself, without all of its lively vendors and playing children. Tragic, perhaps, for a person who had lived their whole life in that building, walked every commute down that street. But you were an outsider then, that baby-faced you, and three hundred sixty-five days have nothing to change the feeling of being a stranger in a strange land. Any other might have grieved. You, on the other hand, only make claims on what you came here for for before leaving this time locked ground.
It would be so easy to drink straight from the source – and your body, throat parched, skin cracked, begs you to set aside formality for the sake of a cool drink on another blistering day – but you don't let the crystal-clear liquid fool you. The citizen-less city; the souls of the dead that crawl from the dunes; the weary faces of the people back at the caravan; your own facade of apathy; it isn't safe to trust the sight of anything here in the desert, locked in by the Earth Witch's barrier.
That, too, would be so easy... but you know better than that.
The winds howl a louder tune than the morning by the time of your return to civilization, the gales strong enough to threaten the placement of your glasses on the bridge of your nose. It's a miracle that they've stayed in one piece the duration of your (imprisonment) stay. In truth, you don't think you'd be able to repair them if they didn't. You focus instead of those very lenses as the rough outline of tents form concrete images before your eyes – and just like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that still, your arrival is greeted with very little fanfare. It's a wonder how much of this is a testament to the old ways and how much of it is an echo of the disappearance of Kashmistan's street life. You suppose you wouldn't take too kindly to outsiders, either, after what had happened, though it's hard to think of yourself as much of a stranger with how much time you've come to spend here.
Fortune seems to be on your side, then, when someone deigns to talk to you beyond frost-covered pleasantries. The conversation you share still revolves more or less around small talk – how is the weather out there? still going back to the city? I could make trips like that in my day, but not anymore – but you've come to learn to take what you can get when it comes to the caravan. If you talk much longer, after all, your conversational partner is bound to begin talking in circles. (Their facade is so real you could almost fall for it; but these people don't really see you, nor do they really talk. The only one who could is -)
“Oh, Keith! Welcome back!”
The sun shines aggressively, bright enough to burn, hot enough to scald; in contrast, Niki's shine is radiant, her warmth a comfort, her smile as welcome a sight as water in Kashmistan. The others may fake smiles at you, lips strained tight against decaying old teeth, but the only one who has truly welcomed you into the life of the caravan (and not just today, but time and time again) is the girl in the braids who runs to catch up to you now. You've done nothing to earn her kindness, of course. Before the sand, before the winds, before the Barrier, people found themselves frustrated with you more than anything. But hers seems the kindness that takes effort to revoke, not gain, and so long as you don't turn feral like the beasts in the night, don't keep the water from the empty city all to yourself, you think she'll smile on and on until she's no longer the mouth to do it with. Until you've no longer the eyes to see it anymore.