Our skin was raw and dirty, rubbed down by the vicious sand winds, thoroughly dried by the endless sunlight; every inch was aching and every uncovered portion left completely unprotected from the natural sting of sun and sand was torn and tanned like the many leather chairs found in the crumbling home of the mostly untouched North Ruin. None of us enjoyed this section of our journey - the birds, as always, were especially negative - making the giddy warmth these memories extract from our well-fed emotional paunches unexpected. That was the case with most of the horrible things we endured. The one exception to that being the day we were attacked by a truly violent and terrible clan of Dust Raiders. Most Dust Raiders are nothing more than bullies, who would only go as far to leave you with a few bruises or take a small portion of a traveller’s supplies. Some encounters can be pleasant; they’re not always on pillaging duty, and they’re very loving and welcoming during those times. When we saw the vicious dust raiders coming our way, we did run, but our previous encounters with Dust Raiders didn’t motivate us to make our run anything more than a playful jog. They caught up to us without effort and when they were near enough to us, we could feel an air of aggression, we could feel their passion for unsurmounted violence snaking its way up our spines, and we could smell the death they carried with them. Even before they engulfed our inexperienced group of couriers, we knew to regret our entirely fabricated attempt to outrun them. They only chose one of us - a purposeful darling, who rode the sweetest wildebeest I would ever meet and reminded me of myself - and we were lucky that one was all they wanted. When they roped her steed and thrust the bone-tipped spear through her spine, we kept moving. We left her behind. All we could save of hers were the staining memories of her deep red blood, the cracking of her bones, the tearing of her flesh, and the haunting yells she managed to throw from her lungs that we ignored and tried so hard to push out of our heads. When anyone mentions that trip, we feel those brutal memories slipping back up from the depths and we ignore that, too. We never talk about that day. If that day never happened, the rest of the memories we have of unpleasant times might not make us laugh, but having that experience knocking on the floorboards makes every complaint feel silly.
