As the sun dipped below the horizon, the desert seemed to hold its breath, a vast, barren expanse of silence that stretched to infinity. The once-blinding golden expanse of the day dissolved into the darkening hues of night, the sky bleeding from fiery crimson to deep, bruised purples. The brutal heat of the sun, which had scorched the earth and turned it to ash, began to wane, leaving behind an eerie, unnatural chill that clung to the air.
The sands, once shimmering with an almost blinding heat, now lay like a vast ocean of bloodstained ochre, their contours twisting and curling in the shadows, obscured by the growing darkness. Silence fell, broken only by the occasional moan of the wind as it swept over the dunes, a sound that echoed like a distant wail of a lost soul. The scent of dry earth, sharp and biting, mixed with the faint trace of something ancient and forgotten, as though the desert itself held secrets long buried.
In the distance, the first stars appeared, their light cold and distant, fragile like the dying embers of a long-forgotten fire. As the seconds passed, their flickering grew, the heavens above seemingly pierced by their light, until the sky was speckled with a glittering array of icy stars, like the scattered shards of shattered glass.
The chill of the night settled deeper, more pronounced now, suffocating the last warmth of the day. The stars, cold and indifferent, gleamed in their infinite beauty, as the moon—a pale, twin reflection of death—rose to claim its place in the sky. Its light, ghostly and cruel, bathed the desert in a spectral glow, painting the sands in shades of silver and ash, as if the land itself had been cursed by some ancient god.
The dunes, now silent and ominous, seemed to shift, their forms pulsating with a dark rhythm, like the heartbeat of some ancient, slumbering beast. The air thickened with an unsettling energy, the weight of the cosmos pressing down upon the earth.
The night had begun.
In an area of the sky, a single star shone brighter than all the others. It pulsed, its light flickering with an unsettling, almost sentient awareness. The brightness grew slowly, faintly at first, but with an undeniable certainty, as though something ancient and dreadful was stirring in the depths of the heavens.
A lone figure, draped in a cloak of shadow and dust, sat on the cold, desolate sands, his gaze fixed upon the sky, upon the pulsing star. His form was still, but his presence felt immense, like a shadow that stretched beyond the limits of mortal perception.
He was meditating. His breath, slow and steady, did not disturb the silence around him.
The robe he wore, once white and pure, was now tarnished by the desert's cruelty, the fabric stained by the ever-blowing winds and the ceaseless, grinding sands. It clung to him like a shroud, a reminder of the long, tortured journey he had endured, the path that had led him here, to this very moment.
His gaze, however, never wavered from that singular, glowing star.
The air around him grew colder still. The wind, once howling and restless, fell into an unnatural stillness. The stars above seemed to intensify, their light turning cruel, burning into his skin with an almost malevolent force. It was as if the very fabric of reality was warping, bending in response to some unseen call.
The energy in the air hummed with a deep, otherworldly power, the taste of ancient magic—of old, forgotten things that slumbered beneath the earth.
The figure's lips parted slightly, a smirk pulling at the edges of his mouth, a bitter, mocking laughter escaping his chest.
"Oh?" he whispered, the sound carrying in the stillness. His voice, low and rich with age, held a knowing, a certainty. "It's starting... Finally." His tone, dripping with both triumph and menace, sent a shiver through the air.
He rose slowly, the movement fluid, predatory—like a serpent uncoiling from slumber. His eyes, gleaming with the light of a thousand lost souls, remained fixed on the star above.
"Oh, Night..." he murmured, his voice carrying an almost reverent darkness
....
In a different part of a particular desert....
At the heart of this endless desert, upon a jagged plateau where the winds howled like forgotten souls, lay the timeless city of Duskfall—an ancient, immortal city, eternally suspended in the grip of twilight. The sun had long since dipped beneath the horizon, leaving only the twin moons to bathe the city in their cold, silver light.
From this lofty perch, Duskfall looked down upon the sprawling, shadowed expanse of the Aldergrove to the west, where the forest whispered of secrets older than the city itself, and to the east, the towering Black Spire Mountains, whose jagged peaks seemed to scrape at the very heavens. The air itself pulsed with an ancient, vibrant magic, its presence woven into every stone, every tree, every breath of wind that carried across the land.
Duskfall was a city of wonder and contradiction, where cultures intertwined, and magic was woven into the fabric of life itself. The elves, resplendent and ethereal, inhabited homes sculpted from the living wood of ancient trees, each structure a testament to the unspoken bond between them and the very earth they walked upon.
Their district was a sanctuary of serenity, where the whispers of the forest mingled with the soft hum of ancient elven spells. Magic coursed through the air, alive with the subtle song of the trees, and the walkways—woven from threads of light—spun in graceful arcs between the towering boughs, carrying the gentle scent of flowers that bloomed even in the cold night.
The city beneath them, however, was a world apart—a land of stone and iron, of fire and sweat. The dwarven district stood as a testament to the unyielding strength of its people. Massive arches of stone framed every street, and iron gates etched with ancient runes pulsed with a quiet, unrelenting power.
Beneath the earth, great forges blazed, their fires never dimming, their heat radiating up into the streets, infusing the very stones with the warmth of creation. The dwarves, who had labored for centuries in the depths of their world, shaped not only the finest weapons but entire worlds of wonder in stone and metal. They were the builders, the smiths, the hands that shaped the city's foundation, and their craftsmanship stood as a symbol of endurance and unwavering pride.
Yet it was the great bazaar of Duskfall that thrummed with the heartbeat of the city, a place where all manner of people—merchants, travelers, scholars, and adventurers—gathered beneath the silken banners of their trade.
The marketplace stretched from the gates of the elven district to the stone-craft of the dwarves, blending cultures and customs into a beautiful, bustling rhythm. Lanterns hung from every pillar, their glow casting a warm, golden light over the cobblestones, as voices rose in a chorus of haggling and laughter, and the scent of rare spices filled the air.
But it was the Twilight Tower—rising above the city like a great sentinel—that defined the city's transformation. At its peak, the tower stretched into the heavens, a spire of dark stone that seemed to reach for the very stars themselves. The tower, with its smooth surface etched with ancient runes, was said to hold the magic that kept Duskfall locked in perpetual twilight. Every night, as the last rays of sunlight slipped below the horizon, the tower would ignite in a burst of radiant color, flames of magic spiraling upward in a brilliant, fiery display. The people of Duskfall stopped what they were doing to watch in awe as the sky itself was set ablaze with light, the magnificent magical power going up into the sky, making the city enter its perpetual state of twilight.
A young man stood, watching it all unfold from a high rise, his eyes narrowed in distaste. He hated the ceremony of dusk—the magic, the so called beauty of dusk, the way it blocked out the stars. He loved the night sky, loved how the stars made his loneliness feel less hollow, how they made him feel less alone.
"Stars, you're mine tonight," he muttered under his breath, a sly grin tugging at his lips. His violet eyes gleamed in as the twilight towers magic spread out and enveloped the cities sky. the dim light grew , as the night sky grew more bright and the pinkish purplish sheen illuminated the city.
The boy, Astra, was tall and lithe, with an appearance that would make many pause. His long curly hair, deep and dark as the night itself, framed face, which was strikingly beautiful with a youthful, yet mischievous almost feminine charm.
His skin was paler than most, a rarity in Duskfall where most of the city's inhabitants bore the tan hues of the desert. But it was his eyes—those gleaming violet eyes—that set him apart. They gleamed with an impish light, a hint of mischeif ever-present beneath their calm surface. He was a true anomaly in a city where most were used to blending in.
He sighed, his gaze wandering across the sprawling city beneath him. The districts stretched endlessly, weaving their way into the distance, a beautiful, chaotic tapestry of life.
Astra's eyes lingered on the upper bazaar—a place of wealth and privilege—where the nobles and rich merchants gathered. A place where he could make his fortune.
Astra stood up from his resting place, atop a human high-rise just in the central part of the human district, as he looked he saw nothing but city scape, he could barley see the walls of duskfall in the distance almost arching over the horizon, they were so small from this distance....
Astra hopped down as he began his descent, dropping from floor to floor using the nearby buildings.....
the city was especially busy today, it was the springtime advent, a long cherished holiday and tradition in the realm of Sahara
it was once said that the goddess of life fought the god of death here in Sahara, and their battle turned this once paradise like realm into a desert, the goddess of life however pushed back the god of death, and such life still existed and persisted even in the harsh desert, the battle was said to have ended in spring, it was to celebrate the battle of the gods and the duality of both life and death, as both these concepts were in unity in the harsh realm of Sahara.
In Duskfall many travelers from all the realms would visit this famed city, as their festival was the biggest in the realm of Sahara.
Astra looked around as the first fireworks seemed to light up the already lit sky, the violet dusk that lingers in the sky now was being littered with many fireworks of all colors, it was a pretty sight
As Astra descended near street level, and near the lower bazaar, the smells and noises assaulted his nose and ears
from delicious street snacks and spices, to strong alcohols and juices, everyone was either drinking or eating, and enjoying the festivities, many instruments were being played and people were dancing and singing, kids were out watching many mages manipulate and play with their magic, creating creatures of water, fire and astra even spotted a man using the high level ice manipulation with extreme finesse.
the street was lively and the atmosphere was festive yet astra felt empty and distant, like he didn't belong here....
Astra couldn't help but salivate as he walked by a wine stand, the smell of various wines assaulting his nose, he grimaced
"I need to get rich," Astra muttered as his eyes glinted with a wicked gleam. He moved through the bustling streets, dodging the watchful eyes of the duskgaurds. His reputation wasn't exactly pristine in this part of the city—he'd earned a spot on the wanted posters for "discreet" thefts and other antics that hadn't always gone unnoticed.
He passed a fruit stand, his nose twitching as the sweet, tangy aroma of lemonade filled the air. Astra's stomach growled in response, and he longed to buy some, but his eyes quickly swept to the side, where he saw a vendor's brightly lit stall advertising a new, exotic drink.
The marketplace buzzed with the noise of barter and argument, a living, breathing thing that seemed to swallow everything in its chaos.
Astra moved through it effortlessly, blending with the throng, eyes flicking over every face. It wasn't long before he spotted his mark—an arrogant merchant draped in robes of crimson and gold, his belly pressing against the fabric with a self-satisfied bulge.
Astra watched for a moment, then stepped forward with purpose, positioning himself perfectly as the merchant lumbered past. The collision was inevitable. Astra let the man bump into him, his body giving way with the force of the impact. He staggered backward, his foot catching on the cobblestones, feigning an almost comically clumsy trip.
"Watch where you're walking, you shitty street rat!" the merchant barked, voice thick with disdain as he began to dust off his robes as though they were besmirched by the mere touch of the crowd.
Astra straightened up, his head bowed low in a show of exaggerated apology, the words flowing smoothly from his tongue. "My deepest apologies, honored sir," he murmured, voice sweet and dripping with insincerity.
"This poor wretch should have never dared cross your path. I will remove myself from your sight at once, my lord."
While the merchant ranted and fumed, Astra's hands worked swiftly—his fingers a blur of practiced precision. The merchant's coin pouch was lifted from his belt, the dagger at his side taken without a sound. It all disappeared into Astra's cloak in the space of a heartbeat.
The merchant, none the wiser, waved his hand dismissively, not even sparing Astra a second glance. "Good," he muttered, too focused on his own inflated sense of importance. "At least you know your place."
Without another word, he pushed into the crowd, leaving Astra behind. The merchant moved deeper into the throng, unaware that his wealth had been claimed in the space of a single, graceful moment.
Astra stood there for a moment, watching the man disappear into the throng. He could feel the weight of the coins, the gleam of the dagger beneath his cloak.
With a small chuckle, he melted back into the crowd, another mark successfully swindled, none the wiser to the hands that had taken everything.
Astra's fingers danced over the coins, counting them swiftly in his palm as he blended seamlessly into the throng of people moving through the bazaar.
His stomach still churned with hunger, the scent of lemonade still clinging to the air, but the thrill of the heist was a much sharper, more satisfying hunger.
He had slipped the merchant's purse with such practiced ease, the movement smooth and undetected. The dagger at his side was a nice bonus, though a little too ornate for his taste. He'd sell it later, or perhaps find someone foolish enough to trade it for something more useful. For now, the weight of the coins felt good in his palm, the firework explosions above lighting his path with their brilliant colors.
The fireworks above painted the night sky in streaks of red, blue, and gold, their light flickering like embers thrown into the darkened heavens. The chaos of the bazaar swirled around him—people shouting, wares being hawked, the hum of the city alive with frenetic energy. His eyes flickered toward the stall advertising the exotic drink again.
He glanced up as he walked through the marketplace, spotting his wanted poster pinned on a board. It was a snapshot—a light magic print, taken without his consent, of him shirtless, caught in the act of... being caught. The photo had captured his confusion, and perhaps the most annoying part, his hair, curly and a little frizzled, framing his face in a ridiculous way. The violet eyes gleamed out from the paper, drawing attention in all the wrong ways.
[Wanted][Astra][Alive]50 Gold Coins
He gritted his teeth. "That skank... not only did she pressure me, but she had the nerve to report me too. has she no shame for her husband?!" He rolled his eyes hint of amusement finding its way in his anger."thinking about it, it must be her husband who even put a bounty on me....great just great" Astra mumbled as he recalled that certain encounter
He shuddered "ugh Nobel women.... truly they are the most terrifying type of woman there is."
Astra's eyes flicked to the family passing by—a young couple, laughing with their child as they drank lemonade beneath the sparkling lights.
A pang of something sharp and cold struck his chest. He hated that feeling. He had no family—only the echo of a mother's forgotten smile in his memory. She had died when he was young, and since then, he'd learned that only he could be relied upon.
Astra adjusted the ragged hood of his cloak, hiding his distinctive appearance, though it did little to hide the subtle magical aura he exuded. He'd learned long ago how to blend into the crowds—disappear, he knew just how to stay by the shadows though he longed to be seen.
He continued his walk toward the upper bazaar, his mind already on his next score, the treasures waiting to be claimed from the filthy rich and their carefree lives.
The night would be his. And with his violet eyes gleaming with mischief, he had every intention of making sure that it was.
"Steal from the rich, steal from the poor," or as the saying goes Astra laughed