Rameses
Legacy Name: Rameses

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"Harakh Rameses." The voice was faint. Barely above a whisper; it was a wonder the Harakh could hear.

"What is it, Farco." Rameses grunted back as he continued sharpening his Malih. His Pronak Toke stepped inside his tent cautiously, wide eyed and seemingly terrified, as usual. The boy was looking around furiously, anywhere but into the pale emotionless eyes of his Harakh.

"Matthieu has word of a trespasser." He was visibly trembling now, his bony hands almost unable to grip the water jug he held. Rameses didn't know whether to laugh or whip the boy for showing such fear in his presence. What bitch of his Sciriba had birthed such a weakling? Surely none of his death riders would father a child like this. Rameses knew he had taught them better... and yet there was something familiar in the boy's quivering irises. He'd be having a word or two with his men when he had a spare moment.

"Send him in then, boy." Ram went back to his blade, turning it over in his hands to test the balance. He was ever perfecting his weapons, changing them to bring out their full potential. He prided himself on creating and refining his blades, and reinforced the same attitude (this word is pissing me the fuck off) on the rest of his warriors. After all these years, Rameses had a huge collection of weapons made from all sorts of things, all scavenged from the land or passing travelers. Metal wasn't one of his preferred materials, but the result of the blade was usually better. The common folk had the right idea; sharpened steel cut through flesh much easier than carved bone.

"My Harakh," Matthieu breathed, coming down to his knees immediately, his head bowed low. Rameses hadn't even heard the man come in, something that had unsettled him at first meeting. He had known nothing more than the man's name and hadn't hidden his suspicion towards the stranger's intent. Stumbling upon a lone Maldecti in the middle of the Sollass was more than strange, it was completely unheard of. Recalling that day made it seem like a thousand years ago and considering how Ram felt, it could have been. He had grown accustomed to how Matthieu could move from place to place as silent as a Rockmouse, he had even used this skill to his advantage, sending him out ahead of the herd in search of stragglers. It had come in handy more than once.

"My rider," Rameses replied softly, tucking his Malih back into it's sheath. His lips upturned slightly with satisfaction. "Farco said you had news for me. What of this trespasser." The way he spoke said it wasn't a question. Harakh Rameses Valekhn, third of his reign did not ask, he told.

"A man, or at least the body of a man, has entered our domain. He is rough like us. His build and skin, like us. Only his face..." Rameses glanced up to see Matthieu struggling to find his words. "His face... His head is skull and bone with horns like that of the Kriath. He moves on all fours like some kind of beast." Matthieu seemed unsure of what else to say and looked back to the ground, pale hair shadowing his tanned face.

Rameses pondered that for a moment, glazed blue eyes motionless as he became possessed by his thoughts. He was searching back, far back into the deepest recesses of his ancestor's memories, recalling a slight that this stranger had sparked within him. Matthieu watched on. His hands were balled into fists as he waited for his Harakh to return to this world, to come back to him with answers from the dead. A few minutes passed before Rameses spoke with the voice of his grandfather, his pale eyes clouded with pain.

"The One who slays the Reyenka Kroth may rule. And may that One disfigure the corpse to harvest the skull and bone for his crown of death. Only One and no other."

The voices of the dead still made Matthieu's skin crawl, even if they came through the passage that his Harakh's body created, he would never be comfortable in their presence. He used to think it impossible, a sin against the resting, until he understood that Harakh Rameses had been given a gift by the Gods. He knew that Rameses was meant to rule them all, every last Maldecti. He watched as the other ascended within himself and blinked as if for the first time in his life.

Matthieu stared at his Harakh, unsure of what to say, if anything at all. Rameses looked exasperated which was unusual even after speaking to his deceased ancestors. He'd closed his eyes, shielding them, as if looking around the dimly lit tent was painful. Rameses had once tried to explain the pain his gift caused him, not just during the act, but for a duration afterwards. He had said it felt like the warlocks of the east were casting a fiery spell on you, burning you to ash from the inside out. Every breath you take seems to fan the flame, making it that more intense. His Harakh had said he learned not to breathe while he used his gift, for he did not wish it to be unusable just because his body could take it no more. Matthieu didn't blame him. In all his years he had never met another of his kind who possessed such powers. There was also The Foretelling that had been passed down for generations.

Every Maldecti knew of it. Whether they all believed it would come true one day... That was another matter. This prophecy said that a mighty dreamweaver would lead the hundreds of Maldecti Sciribas to a bloody victory over the other nations. His talents would come to him when he was of age, unmatched by any other and he would thread his sorcery throughout the lands, reeking havoc on all that dared oppose him. Rameses was one of those who did not believe the stories, but Matthieu felt differently. There was something about his Harakh that nobody could deny.

Rameses's skin was still tingling when he withdrew from his ghostly conversation, the pain behind his eyes slowly fading to a dull throb. Matthieu was looking at him in that odd way he did sometimes. He hated that. Undoubtedly his rider's thoughts had drifted to that of the oh so mighty Prophecy yet again. Rameses could just see it swirling deep within his olive eyes. Despite the sharp pains scraping patterns into his mind, Rameses could still glare harshly at the man.

"I am not the One, Matthieu," He snapped, each word coming out as if spoken by two people. "And neither is this wild beastling. Walking on all fours. What kind of Maldecti disgusts himself by lowering his head to the equal of sand feeders. How far away is it?"

"A day and a halfs ride, Harakh." Matthieu cast his eyes down once more, unwilling to admit that Rameses was not what he kept denying. "West, towards Rekai. He seemed to be heading in that direction. What a lone Maldecti hopes to accomplish in a pole city evades my logic."

Rameses pondered the stranger's direction, motioning to one of his INSERTWORDFORSERVANT to bring them something to eat. "The only thing of interest in Rekai is the trade, though I doubt this man owns anything worthwhile from what you have said of him... Never the less, we will track him before he reaches the city." Ram said nonchalantly as the INSERTWORD set down a tray of desert fruits and edible plants before them. "I wish to know who he is and why he- Gods Matthieu. Stop sulking like a Gheill that's been kicked and eat something- why he is wandering about alone in our Sollass. No Maldecti travels alone without good reason." He gave Matthieu a knowing look.