BOOK 1 - INTERLUDE: BRANON THE SHADOW WOLF

Interlude: Brandon the Shadow Wolf

Brandon trudged through the savannah, his race suit peeled open and tied around his waist and yet, even with the topside exposure, he felt the damned red sun melting him to sludge with every directionless step he took.

He’d wandered the savannah for a full day now, or at least what felt like a full day. The night was cold, a sharp contrast to the heat that boiled him now and while he’d been pressed to find shelter from the plethora of insects that swarmed in the dead of night, Brandon preferred their pestilence to the heat wave he sweltered under.

He panted, dragging his feet across the dirt path he’d been following ever since he’d found it at dawn. He’d wandered away from Johnny without a thought for what might be out here lurking in the night and even under the heated sun and there were many things hidden out in the deceptively sparse savannah.

Horned rabbits burrowed under his feet, their legs too fast for even him to keep up with. Serpents with three heads and three sets of poison dripping fangs snaked out of the sands in the night, slithering after prey he struggled to capture on his lonesome. And even deer as large as vehicles prowled the land, grazing freely on the menagerie of odd colored bushes and shrubs, the grasses barely grown out the scorched land.

Yet neither predator nor prey let Brandon get close enough to make them a meal. His stomach growled aggressively, he felt the acids refluxed against his stomach wall, eating him in the absence of sustenance. “Not even a stray fruit…” Brandon rasped, his lips long chapped and dried of their moisture. A single drop of water, a bite of an apple or even a single slice of a tangerine was all Brandon sought for now, yet he remained starved and dehydrated.

His fingers loosely gripped onto the helmet he’d taken away from Johnny, the thing was useless with the sunup but at night, he looked forward to donning it over his head and watching the many insects plink against its visor.

Just then a dire thought occurred to Brandon. “The insects…I can…” He recalled hearing someone confess they’d eaten a roach before and it tasted like chicken. He doubted such was true but at the very least knew insects weren’t off the dinner menu.

He stared at the ground beneath his feet, sprouts of thin grass sticking out and the odd flat rock laying about. Licking his lips he crouched, dusting away the sand slowly and flipping the larger rocks around him. He was soon rewarded, a single multi legged insect crawled underneath and all around a rock he lifted. It was thick, long like a centipede and had a black carapace that wouldn’t stand a chance against his teeth.

Gently, Brandon pinched the insect off the rock, it was longer than his hand and in its panic at being lifted, curled itself around Brandon’s fingers, tugging against his grip to escape. The Shadow Wolf chuckled sinisterly and opened his maw wide. He dropped the insect in and immediately shut his eyes as the first, anxious crunch brought a burst of tangy juices in his mouth.

The bitter taste, the frantic last moment squirming of the insect, the acidic tang, Brandon ignored it all and swallowed. The moisture it provided alone was worth the discomfort but as he picked himself up from the dirt he swore, “Damn you Johnny.”

Not for the first time Brandon cursed the human racer’s name and existence with all his being. Johnny Victoris was the reason he was here, stewing in such indignity. He hoped and prayed the fool of a man was dead by now, perhaps one of those three-headed snakes took a bite out of him, or maybe he got trampled by a herd of threatened deer. Whatever it was, Brandon wished it was slow and painful.

He glared at the helmet hanging off his fingertips and groaned, “Should have just taken the Voyager.” He swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth and returned to his dirt path, trudging along with a slight increase in strength.

It was meant to be mine. Supposed to be mine. Brandon thought. If anyone truly deserved to launch the Voyager for the world to see, and on Banzai Banger’s raceway, then it was him, wasn’t it? He was the Shadow Wolf, the Black Hound, the number one derby racer. His name was just as if not more famous than Johnny’s.

And yet, somehow, he gets the Voyager? He gets DRIFTERS? He gets a retirement party? Grinding his teeth Brandon winced, his jaw was still sore from his brawl with Johnny, among other wounds that were still healing. He wondered why the hell Johnny would even return to launch the Voyager when he’d just retired two months ago. Everything pointed that he was the one meant for that stage, meant for…for this! Whatever this was.

When they said the Voyager could cut through dimensions, travelling through space in a blink of an eye and bridging the distance between Convars across the solar system and those residing on earth…well, Brandon simply thought that was just an exciting advertisement for the Voyager. But he’d never expected to truly find himself in a completely different world and worse, stranded on it with Johnny Victoris of all damned people.

Looking back now, especially as he braced against the elements, little to no shelter to shield him from the sun’s boiling rays or the rolling waves of heat and numerous strange creatures lurking around— Brandon really wished he’d just taken the Voyager from Johnny instead.

Panting, his feet sore from miles of dehydrated traversal, Brandon set his thoughts of Victoris aside as he saw a tree in the distance. It was barely taller than him and had far fewer branches than he’d ever seen on a tree, but it had leaves aplenty. They were dark, purple almost and had a particular stench when he drew closer. However, none of that was of concern to the Shadow Wolf, only the spot of shade, its branches and leaves provided were what he cared about.

He propped himself underneath the tree and let out a pleasured sigh at finally being sheltered from the red sun, if only part way. He let his head rest against the trunk and moaned comfort as a rare wind billowed sand across.

Blessed with the rare comfort it wasn’t long before Brandon shut his eyes, crossed his legs and hugged his stolen helmet as he drifted into a sweaty slumber, flashes of his eventual domination lulled him deep into sleep as he muttered briefly, “Mmm…get off this planet and win, win it all.”

He nodded off, blissful, if only for a couple of minutes before he felt vibrations through the earth and tree trunk he leaned against. Sleep called his name but Brandon, startled by the thought Johnny could be driving his way, snapped his eyes wide open and searched for the source.

He saw nothing for a long time, but the vibrations only got stronger. The savannah had little to block his view from the horizon and it was upon it he saw what he could only describe as, “Nomads?”

To the right of his tree came an entourage of men dressed in thin, billowing clothes. Their faces were masked by wrappings and their pack animals— a camel of some sort— was wrapped the same at its hooves and around its humps.

Brandon stood, his heart beating in his chest as the entourage grew in size with every second that passed and every inch over the horizon they crossed. He saw women, children too and even canines herding a pack of what looked like goats alongside their nomadic caravan. Very few people rode atop the camels, the pack animals used almost exclusively for hauling heaps of what Brandon could only hope was provisions.

Food, water! They would have to have some; how else would anyone traverse this sun scorched land? He took an eager step forward before halting, a seedling of doubt nestling in his mind. Nomads they might be but…they certainly aren’t unarmed or harmless.

The Shadow Wolf recalled his and Johnny’s first ever encounter with the natives of this world and they were anything but friendly. His heart beated now for a different reason, he was hopelessly outnumbered, the nomads had hunting animals in their dogs and would surely have weapons somewhere amongst them.

He gulped, stranded between fear and dehydration. Before Brandon could decide for himself what to do, the single man riding atop a camel waved a staff at him. Hesitant, Brandon raised his arm and waved back. No choice but to wait now. He thought, gripping his helmet— if it came to it, he’d have no choice but to defend himself.

The nomads crossed the distance in short order. They were a noisy bunch of folks, he could barely count their number but assumed at least a hundred men, women and children were among the caravan, not including their various animals. Each of them were covered in the same thin cloth that seemed to protect both from the burning sun rays and the numerous insects that would surely bother at night. It was airy too, judging by how the children played. Said children were a cross of curiosity and afraid of him, something he was quite used to by now.

He waved again as the man with the staff hopped off his camel, said something to his people and began walking towards Brandon. As he approached, crossing the cautious distance they’d placed between them and him, Brandon quickly saw that the man was tall and very slim. His frame was anything but malnourished, the muscles underneath his airy cloth were toned but slender and the slit that let his eyes peer out at the world revealed him to be dark-skinned and grey-eyed.

He stopped a foot or two away from Brandon, enough to be respectable yet cautious as he spoke a language Brandon couldn’t decipher for the life of him, “ ” He said and gestured at the caravan behind him with his staff.

Brandon merely nodded, put on a smile and began his pantomime act. “Do. You. Have. Food?” He gesticulated wildly, articulating each word loud and slowly, yet he was sure the nomad before him was just as confused as he was by the language.

The nomad looked behind him, yelled something and turned back to Brandon with furrowed, concerned eyes staring down at him. Brandon didn’t give up, he continued to gesture, making what he felt were universal signs for water, food, and even sleep, all while hoping they didn’t take advantage of the language barrier to attack him as the first natives he’d met did.

“Ahh!” The nomad said and reached into one of many furrows in his cloth. Out came a waterskin, nearly empty but holding an ocean of water in Brandon’s opinion.

The Shadow Wolf snatched it out of the nomad’s hands, popped the cork and downed the precious drink without a second thought. His lips softened, his cracking tongue healed, and his dry throat was smoothened. A temporary bliss, even greater than his brief slumber settled upon Brandon as he shook the waterskin for every drop.

“Bwahahah!” The nomad cackled, he gestured for Brandon to follow and walked back to his people, yelling indecipherable words all the way.

Obedient, Brandon followed the man to the caravan and as he approached, a child snatched the waterskin from his hands and replaced it with a full one, darting away before he could even mutter a thanks. A blue-green eyed woman offered him a bowl of dried meat, a jerky of some kind that was well salted and sublime to chew on between sips of his waterskin.

As Brandon walked amongst the nomadic group, their indecipherable mutterings swarmed him, curious voices mixed in with the mischievous giggles of women and the excited screams of children. The men, though, eyed him warily, each of them, including the women, were at least two feet taller than him and all dark-skinned. Their eyes were often a combination of blue-green or simply grey like the man he was following.

The man stopped beside a camel and said something while gesturing for Brandon to climb up on it. Between chews Brandon asked, “Wait…are you sure?”

The man pointed towards the direction they were headed, at the sun and then at everyone around before urging Brandon to climb on. With such gesticulations Brandon had no choice but to hoist himself upon the camel, it was a difficult thing at first given its towering height, these were nothing like those on earth, at least twice their size— which made sense given how tall each of the nomads were.

With the help of his new nomad friend Brandon straddled the camel well enough not to disturb the sacks straddled to their back. With a grunt and a wave of his staff, his new nomad friend ordered the caravan forward once more and foot after foot, they traversed the scorching savannah.

Along the way, as Brandon devoured the jerky and drowned his parched throat in water, the nomad attempted to communicate various things to Brandon as he walked beside his camel. Brandon understood little but what he did made much sense. For one, they were peaceful folk, their current migration came about not of their own volition but from the changes racing through their world.

The Nomad man painted a picture of a single, whole tribe split in two— some sort of civil war or perhaps nothing yet as large but a divisive dispute that tore their tribe asunder all the same. The nomad man revealed his head underneath the wraps of cloth, there were horn growing out of his dark, almost blue skin and as he gesticulated, he described the new tribe as violent and…as far as Brandon could make out, demon worshipers, cultists.

Brandon didn’t have much to say but listen or rather pay attention as the man recounted his tribe's predicament. They were blighted by the actions of the demon worshipers and cultists and now, wherever they went few people would think to accept them, to let them in for food or water. It was a heartbreak Brandon could relate to; his life was much the same before he stumbled into Banzai Bangers and they made him their Shadow Wolf.

Even then, he never felt as important or of worth— true worth— like Johnny was so privy to. It annoyed and frustrated him to no end that despite the Banzai Bangers being run by Convars, they still appreciated Johnny Victoris more than one of their own.

More than Charles.

Consumed by the effort of following the nomad’s tale of his tribe, Brandon didn’t notice until they arrived that the caravan had found a place to make camp. It was a shallow rock outcropping, the kind that might once have cradled a waterfall, but now only fed a humble, near-stagnant pond—barely more than a puddle in the dust.

They broke the caravan with practiced ease, each of them moving with the quiet momentum of people who knew their roles. For a moment, Brandon felt adrift among them, watching as they unfurled tents, laid out blankets, and gathered around the pond. They filled waterskins, splashed their faces and armpits, and passed a single bucket in a tight, unspoken circle.

Then came his nomad companion, his face was wet with water and, it was the first time Brandon had seen his full face. He was a handsome, darkblue skinned man with horns and fine yellowing teeth. He grinned up at Brandon as he handed him a bucket, pointed at the pond and then at the many camels that some of the men were already feeding water.

“Oh, you want me to…I can do that.” Brandon said and collected the bucket, and the nomad man made an excited, possibly grateful noise as he did, already walking off to help a separate set of men in the slaughter of two of their goats.

Right, that’s where the jerky comes from. Brandon thought, doing his best to tune out the desperate bleats of the creature come to know death. Indulging in the quiet of the tribe, Brandon settled into his water feeding role, muttering hellos back to the women and baring his fangs at the children stalking him in amazement. A single fake roar sent them giggling, running and yelping against their mothers’ skirts, mothers who clearly thought differently of Brandon’s antics.

In time, the heat of the day melted into the cool of the night, the moon swung boldly above, a shiny emerald constellation some of the nomads seemed to pay deference to, mostly the women. In time, their tents and blankets were all set up nicely against several crackling campfires in which the slaughtered goat meat was grilled on a stick while some were cut into strips and set to dry against the savannah’s winds.

Brandon sat amongst them; their excited chattering filled the night as they shared dinner. Some had already set themselves to sleep while others continued to work, tending to the weak or ill and counting. Brandon’s nomad friend was absent and though he barely understood any of what the man gestured, he’d preferred his company to being surrounded by his tribe, most of whom didn’t bother to communicate as well as he did.

Eventually, it became too boring to sit around listening to a language he couldn’t understand and so, Brandon got up, strolled towards the far end of the pond. The sand had cooled considerably, and he didn’t need or want a blanket. He put on the helmet and curled up to sleep, finally shutting his eyes since he’d found the tree in the afternoon.

“Vakharé! Thal’zen arakai!” It was muffled thanks to his helmet, but Brandon heard the undoubted screams and recognized his nomad companion’s voice. “Vakharé, un dren'ai! Kes’sha valen, mor’tah rei!”

He got up to his feet and ran back towards their main camp, already the women, children and men were scrambling to their feet. Pulling their things together haphazardly in the dead of night all while letting a slew of curses and wake up calls. Most noticeably though, the men were armed and brandishing their weapons towards a single direction— north.

His entire journey with them Brandon had merely assumed they were armed but to see it brandished was a different feeling all together. But unlike the natives that greeted Johnny and him their first day on this planet, the nomads weren’t going to attack him, in fact, they merely glared at the pitch dark northwest and urged their tribe to pack up their things.

Brandon lifted his helmet’s visor for a clearer look. As a Half-Convar, his eyes adjusted to the dark with ease, granting him near-night vision. What had been a blur now came into focus: a rising line of dust on the horizon. Riders—at least a dozen—were fast approaching. One wasn’t even touching the ground.

Brandon blinked, squinting hard against the darkness, then froze.
“Are his wings... on fire?”

“Vakharé! Thal’zen arakai! Vakharé, un dren'ai! Kes’sha valen, mor’tah rei!”
His nomad companion was shouting now, his voice raw with panic as he darted from tent to tent, dragging people to their feet.

Brandon sprinted after him. “Hey! Hey! What’s happening? Who are they?”

The man turned, breathless and wild-eyed. He stammered, tried to speak—but no words came. Instead, he made two quick gestures: hands clasped together in a binding motion, then a finger dragged across his throat.

That was answer enough.

Brandon stood slack jawed and confused. The nomads wasted no time breaking up their camp and leaving, inspired by the terror of whoever was approaching. His nomad friend had urged him to come along, to escape with their hustling caravan but Brandon had never been one to run from a fight and he wouldn’t start now.

“Whoever you guys are…” Brandon began, his fists raised in a tight boxing stance, his helmet in place on his head. “You’d better leave my…friends alone!”

Despite his hesitant but proud declaration, Brandon was silently hoping these people didn’t have what it takes to break through the high-tech Lonsdaelite helmet armor he had on. Yet the fact was, not only was he outnumbered seven-to-one, but they were also clearly different from any of the other natives he’d come across and certainly weirder.

Six of them were clearly of some Demi-human mix, the literal brightest had flaming wings that allowed him to hover above the ground, he smirked down at Brandon, ember colored hair waving with each heavy flap of his fiery wings.

Directly in front of the smug Phoenix-man was a young woman, or rather Bunny-girl, her soft-furred ears were the largest giveaway to her genetic lineage, that and her thick, muscular legs. She wielded a glowing, golden pair of daggers and like the rest of her team wore a white and gold uniform top, bottom and cloak.

Brandon did a quick scan of them all— finding two female hyena beastkin and two male cheetah beastkin, each of them garbed and armed the same as the Bunny-girl and the Phoenix-man. All except one— their leader.

She’d stepped away from her team and approached Brandon confidently, her body was unlike any he’d seen on this planet and quite the surprise too because he’d believed this was a world without power or technology, but he was wrong.

Their leader was almost completely bionic. Her legs and arms were shiny, dark tinted metal rather than flesh and bone. Her every movement came with a whir and whine of machinery, Brandon’s sharp ears picked up on a hum coming from within her as she closed in the distance between them but most important of all was her facial features— she was a Convar.

At least half Convar like me. Brandon thought his fisticuffs were lowering ever so slightly. By Convar standards she was quite the beauty and if it weren’t for half of her being machinery, Brandon might have taken to her as a woman rather than a threat.

“Stop! That’s far enough!” He yelled, forcing her to stop her approach a few feet away from him. “Who are you? What do you want?”

The words that escaped her lips were unfortunately just as jargon as every other language Brandon had come across. Their leader seemed to understand there was a language barrier and began to gesture as she spoke increasingly loudly.

“Ashal’therin vae Serynth’al Vahn, kael’domir zhaarnal thisha’el, draem lun’kara Loath’zul.” She retrieved a small, rune-veined stone from her cloak, its core pulsing with a golden glow that flared as she stepped closer. Her smile was warm, eyes bright with awe.

“Sael’viir, Johnny Victoris…Vael’ka’shin der Vahn’Alari!”

She didn’t get another word in as Brandon lurched forward with his fists. She ducked under one but was caught off guard when Brandon used that position to send his knee into her gut. Her allies bristled, yelling out alarm and dashing forward towards Brandon only for their leader to raise an arm to stop them.

“Damn you and Johnny Victoris! Stay away from me, stay away from the nomads!” Brandon spat, glaring hate at all seven of them. Their leader rose to full height, chuckling as she caressed the spot on her stomach Brandon had driven his knee into.

He didn’t wait for a response, didn’t need one— whoever these people were, they knew Johnny, his full name. Brandon didn’t need another reason to stay away from them. He stormed off, headed in the direction his nomad friends had gone, their caravan could still be seen running off in the distance, a large dust trail marking their leave.

An arm took hold of his shoulder. Brandon swung around, whipping his fist in a backhand to take off her head. She ducked under, leaving him free to put even more distance between them. “I said, stay the hell away from me. I want nothing to do with Johnny Victoris!” Brandon yelled.

The Bionic Convar and her allies didn’t seem to hear him though and if they did, they didn’t seem to care. The beastkin inched forward behind their leader, the Phoenix man had uncrossed his arms and, in both hands, wielded two golden spiked maces he spun around menacingly. His smug look from earlier vanished.

The Bunny-girl hopped in place, surely eager to dash forward and riddle Brandon with a hundred stabs from her golden daggers. The others were much the same, fixing Brandon with bare fangs and intense glares that promised violence if he didn’t do as their leader wanted.

She was still smiling, it was much tighter now, as if she was wearing a smile rather than actually smiling. She extended her arms out openly, gesturing again at the runic stone glowing in her hand and then, beckoning Brandon to come with her, with them.

No. Brandon bared his teeth and with an angry wave of his arm yelled out, “No!”

He started to storm off again when a shadow and trail of heat flew over him. In an instant his path was blocked by the hovering Phoenix-man, his fiery wings illuminating the cold savannah’s night, his glare as heated as the flames that curled from his wings and onto his twin spiked maces.

Brandon growled, pushed the armor button underneath his helmet and let himself be enveloped in the full Lonsdaleite armor. Brandon pumped his fists, getting a feel for the full-body armor and then with a guttural roar, he charged.

The Phoenix-man flew at him, his flaming twin maces twirling in each hand. He swung at Brandon’s head only to be surprised when Brandon jumped and caught the blow in his chest.

Brandon was equally surprised to find there wasn’t much power behind the blow, but he didn’t let that stop him from yanking the mace out of the Phoenix-man’s hand and swinging it at the two Beastkin that came at him from behind.

They stopped their charge just short of being bludgeoned, the two Hyena Beastkin brought up their swords to guard against Brandon’s mad flailing. He saw the Bunny-girl dashing her way towards him, her daggers primed and ready while he felt the heat from the Phoenix-man grow as he approached.

Cursing under his breath Brandon disengaged from the two Hyena Beastkin and bolted toward the one person that hadn’t moved to attack yet— their leader. A shower of fiery feathers descended around him as he dashed, plinking off his armor harmlessly but with enough force to remind him— If I weren’t wearing this, I’d be skewered completely!

The Bunny-girl was faster than he was and blocked his path, she stabbed Brandon several times with her daggers, her hands a blur of rapid movement Brandon could hardly keep up with. Fortunately, her attacks were too weak to penetrate his armor yet enough to pester and keep him busy long enough for her allies to surround him.

A heavy thud echoed against Brandon’s back as the Phoenix-man finally landed a solid hit, sending him flying into the rough, sandy terrain. Even with the armor making him invulnerable to damage, getting tossed like a doll hurt. Brandon gritted his teeth as he hurried to get up only to have a foot planted against his back, his arms snatched from under him and his legs held down.

He screamed, “No! Let me go you bastards! I’ll kill you and Johnny! Damn you!” With his head as the only unrestrained part of his body he moved and flailed it around until a metal foot came into his view.

Hovering over him with a sad and exhausted look on her features was their leader. She didn’t even need to lift a finger. She crouched down beside him and began speaking, gesturing at that useless runic stone and worst of all she kept saying his name.

“Arrgh! Let me go! Let. Me. Go!”

As if to answer his screams, a volley of purple flamed arrows fell upon them. The Bionic leader looked startled, afraid even and that filled Brandon with more joy than worry, especially as he felt her allies let loose their grip on him. He jerked out from under the weight of the Cheetah Beastkin and threw a sweeping kick underneath him, taking his footing away and sending him to the ground.

“Johnny Victoris!” Their leader yelled at Brandon, incensing him even further as he jumped from his low position to sock the nearest of her allies— the Bunny-girl— in the jaw. His blow seemed powerful enough to knock her out completely judging by how her body fell over limp.

Brandon snorted and pumped his fists, “Fast but weak.” He searched for more enemies only to find the Bionic leader and her allies dashing towards a horde of…monsters. “What in the hell is that?”

A short distance away from where he stood with the Cheetah and Bunny Beastkin, the Phoenix-man and the pair of Hyena Beastkin warrior women were slashing, stabbing and bashing into the horde of short, green and angry monsters.

The Cheetah Beastkin he’d knocked over yelled at him as he hauled the unconscious Bunny-girl, “Johnny! Zhaen’tor vi’shar, khael! Vahn-dar threl’ek daem Ka’Morra’nul—draeg thal’nir vae’kara nor’dai, draem’zar kael’gotha Goblins!”

Aside from Johnny’s useless name, there was one other word Brandon understood in the messy jargon language the Cheetah yelled at him in. Goblin.

These are truly monsters then. Brandon mused, watching how they failed one after the other in great numbers to even put a scratch on their flame-winged opponent, the glowing lances the Hyena Beastkin skewered through multiple of them at a time and then— there was their Bionic leader fighting beside them.

Her arms and legs were transformed into razor thin blades she could walk, stand and murder tens of those goblins with at a time, but despite their seeming overwhelming favor, Brandon didn’t fail to notice that each of them had worried expressions, especially their leader.

He smirked, knowing what to do. He tossed a last glance at the Cheetah Beastkin as he tried to wake up the Bunny-girl with an ethereally glowing palm placed over her head and soft words— he barely noticed Brandon dart towards the goblin horde.

Behind the line of corpses and other unfortunate fodder were a line of red-skinned goblins, they knocked their bows with purple flamed arrows and set it loose into the four golden cloaked warriors fighting against their hordes. Their Bionic leader transformed one of her arms into a sort of gun and with a screeching hum, blasted many of the arrows with a golden energy beam.

Brandon gulped at the sight; it made him pause to wonder if…. No, not going with them, not going with Johnny. No!

He kept running, keeping a wide berth from the field spanning battle until he felt safe enough to release the full-body lonsdaleite armor around him— it offered good protection but was rather heavy in its full form.

Brandon searched around, trying to right himself again but, all he could see was the sandy, pitifully vegetated savannah around him. The green moon hanging above his head made the screams and roars of battle behind him all the more frightening— more and more, every day and night, he hated this world.

He was lost again and this time he didn’t have the nomads; he didn’t even know which direction they’d gone off to. It was all a mess and not for the first time, it was Johnny’s fault.

“Brandon.” A voice called behind him. His heart leapt into his throat for various reasons but one above all— he hadn’t told anyone on this planet his name.

When Brandon spun around, his hands were already clenched into fists but what he saw behind him was beyond what his fists alone could beat into submission.

A giant—no, an ogre—loomed in battered, mud-crusted plate armor. The creature’s club was as long as Brandon was tall, and twice as thick. Its face was a brutal landscape of tusks, scars, and rage.

Yet it wasn’t the one who spoke.

The voice had come from the man standing in front of the ogre. A shamanic figure: old, wiry, sun darkened. He wore a faded red cape, bare-chested, his trousers torn and filthy. In his left hand, he held a staff crowned with a bleached animal skull that rattled softly when he stepped forward. He opened his right hand and blew a powder into Brandon’s face.

Even as Brandon coughed and hacked, he felt the world spin, his head swell with a drowsiness like he’d never felt before and the energy to even move a finger as he collapsed into the sand drain away.

The shaman and his ogre stood above him, watching silently as his eyes fluttered shut.