The suns burn.
Heat waves rise up from the endless sea of sand as the twin Watchers glare down into the desert. This at least has not changed.
The Great Sand Mother, the test of being out in the sands. A trial of strength, of determination ... of the spirit. A blasting hot furnace that seperates the weak from the strong, the right from the wrong. Unchanging and unchangeble.
The suns still burn.
The heat sinks into his fur, into his soul and into his mind. Willingly he opens himself to the memories, to the age that no longer is. To the age he fought to protect, and in the end sacrificed himself to avenge. His vision swims until he is looking down the streets of Alhira. Noble speaks to noble, eyes bright and tails sure. Underclassers move unobtrusively about, sent on errands and tasks of the day.
The scene blurs for a moment, and then there is the arena. Stern yet jubiliant crowds cheer on those on the sands, battling for honor and for glory. For the right of rule, and to prove their strength in front of all. Bright blood stains the sands, as the Watchers gaze down into the pit. He remembers standing on that hot sand, his and his opponent's blood bright in their fur.
The suns are fists of heat now, battering from all sides.
His vision breaks up now, bringing him back to a world of blistering heat. His fur would be matted with sweat if the heat didn't suck away any and all moisture. Judging the time of day, he moves towards his impromptu shelter. Soon it would be mid day - the hottest part of the day in the desert. Sitting in the open during that time would be suicide, and that is not what he is here for. That is a way of weakness. Black cloth holds off the sun and the sand, absorbing some of the heat. Allowing himself a small drink of his precious supply of water, he closes his eyes and returns to the visions. To the memories of his home. And of what became of it.
Again his mind's eye opens onto the streets of Alhira, but this is a far different Alhira than before. Smoke rises chokingly, the buzz of lasers and other energy weapons filling the air. Fighters scream past overhead, and the day is made dark before night by the clouds that rise from the damaged city. A plan is being formed - some have already chosen to run, to flee to Sanctuary. This is well. Survival is important. But he cannot run. He is a warrior, and he will fight these invaders. This day there would be no Altheor to break the back of the invading fleet. The strange, hairless and grey skinned aliens were relentless.
Nothing slowed their advance for long. And so the plan for vengance was born. As a strong and cunning warrior, he was asked if he would sleep, to wait the day that he would rise up again and crush the invaders, after they had grown complacent. Even in the burning heat of the Great Sand Mother, he shivers when he remembers the biting cold of the cryostasis. The world is in the suns.
After a time he comes back to himself as the heat drops from the death dealing furnace temperatures of mid-day. Again he allows himself a few small sips of water. And now his memories play back recent events.
The lid of the cryostasis chamber slowly opening, the biting cold still settled deep into his bones. His body ached, but his blood surged. It was finally the day that they would strike back, and avenge their race on the invaders. He would dye the sands with their fluids, thick and dark. But as he observed the one who awoke him, the cold settled deeper. Something was wrong. Something was not right. They had slept too long. Lost and forgotten in the fall of their world, they had slept away centuries. The Alhira and Demaria he knew had been destroyed. And vengance had been taken from them by the Nall. So now he faced a new challenge - to find his place in this new Demaria. Those who had fled returned, and started the task of rebuilding - he was offered a place with them.
The suns bank their fires.
Before he took that place, he came here. To where nothing had changed. The desert and its trial, unchanging and unchangable. To test himself, to see if Altheor still watched over his people. Licking dry lips, he crawls from under his shelter, lifting his gaze to the horizon.
He still lived, through wit, will and strength he had survived the desert he had sent himself into. Purified by fire and sand, soon night would come, and the last leg of the journey back to Gleaming Star, with its streets reminding him of Alhira, but not Alhira. Slowly, carefully, he drinks the last of his water.
The stars burn.
The desert is behind him. He is strong, if tired. But there is one thing he must do first.
He steps up to the stone, uncertain. It is not the time of Naming, but he must do this. He has been scoured clean by the sand, and his will has been forged by the heat. Tail still, he steps onto the Rock of Altheor and turns to face the plaza. "I am Tatteredear Desertborn! I was born to this world over three centuries ago, and fought to save her from those who would destroy her. I failed. To have vengeance, I slept beneath the sands of the Great Mother, frozen out of reach of time so that I could have vengence. This too was taken from me. But I am awake again, and have redeemed my failure in the desert. I am Tatteredear Desterborn, adopted son of the Sandwalker Clan, and I will protect Demaria with blood and claw!"
And the suns shine.