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Dakar - Senegal (by Jeff Attaway) 

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Mbayang_diouf

SENEGAL

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because I could not see the truth,         she called me blind—        and laughed a haughty laugh        that resonated among the stars        like music—        even Saturn's rings,         ever-elusive, sung back;        a cruel symphony,        dark and sweet,         but not meant for my ears.                                Mars was silent         in all its humility,        blushing red and         yielding to the galaxy         who twinkled with all her stars         and then        fizzled        out.

unknown log

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prince of the reef

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I have shown you benevolence, Guardian. Should the Awoken ever need an ally I will call on you.

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Lake Retba - Senegal (by Jeff Attaway) 

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anti-anxietyraps

Bara sat idly under a palm tree, a gentle breeze blew over his face as the warm sand soothed his sore legs. His mind was empty, eyes looking out to the horizon, focusing on nothing in particular. Bara was at ease, a momentary escape from the near constant weight that sat upon his broad shoulders.

It was nice.

Nice things never last very long.

His attention, once spread evenly amongst the beautiful landscape of the beach, was now focused on the barrel of the gun that was being aimed at him by a woman that was.. blue?

‘Da ba dee da ba da’ Bara snickered to himself, managing to withhold the thought but not the grin that came to his features.

“This-” He grunted, slowly standing to his full height “-is a beach.” He bent over, stretching as he reached for his toes. “Though I’m pretty sure they have them in Kalos.” He returned upright, moving to stretch his arms.

“But do you mind getting that gun out of my face? Maybe give me your name too? Just don’t break my heart and start it out with a ‘Mrs’.”

The woman gave a condescending snort as she holstered her weapon, though her hand remained idly on the grip in the event that she needed to draw it once again. Worst-case scenario, she’d need to take care of the guy quickly with her gun, but if others like him happened to appear—something she was used to, especially facing the Hive; the damned things always seemed to be in swarms—she could always switch to using the sword strapped to her back. 

That being said, she didn’t see anything threatening about the guy. Except perhaps his height. Khadija was by no means a short woman, but compared to this particular man, she looked tiny. Thankfully for her, his seemingly placid tone clashed with his intimidating build. 

He had a strange lexicon though, she had to admit. Khadija had taken note of his prior remark, the one about—well, whatever the hell a ‘Kalos’ was—but she had swiftly decided to ignore it; changes are it was trivial anyway, and it certainly didn’t appeal to her as a topic of interest. At least she could conjure up some snarky replies to his questions since she understood those.

“Ha. ‘Mrs.’ The only thing I’m married to, mon cher, is battle,” she replied, as if her armor and weapons didn’t fully communicate that point. “But I’m called Khadija, if you must know. Now, courtesy is that you’d tell me your name in return, but that’s making the assumption that I care what it is. In any case, I suppose it would be better for me to know than not, hm?” 

;; of bullets and beasts

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❝ You want to know FEAR? Face down a Bladedancer, all sharp edges and crackling death. Then you’ll know FEAR.❞

                                                                                                        —CAYDE-6

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l o c a t i o n  / /  t h e  r e e f

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;; of bullets and beasts

{ starter thing for @anti-anxietyraps woohoo //pardon the delay }

—;; Beside the woman sat a machine, sleek in make and glistening in the Mars heat. 

    It lifted its head, regarded its so-called master with artificial eyes. Perhaps it debated relaying a new intel message to her, but it thought better of the idea and instead elected to unfold its wings, fluttering up to rest on her shoulder afterwards. Granules of red sand spilled onto the woman’s armor as the machine perched, likely deposited there by its talons—the machine was notorious for this habit. All throughout her jumpship were traces of Mars sand, courtesy of her mechanized companion. 

    “Mon corbeau,” she spoke, lifting a finger for the bird to flit onto. “Have you received any new readings on the gate to the Black Garden?” 

    There was no reply as the machine hung its head in shame. A downside to being sentient was that its alleged master, Khadija, had a much easier time divulging the true intentions of the little machine—but conversely, it had its perks. She was not too hard to deceive, considering the level of trust between the two. That being said, it was not voluntary that the crow should lie to her; it had no choice but to withhold information—after all, it could not deny orders from the Prince (whom Khadija did not suspect could still tamper with the machine). 

    The woman sighed inwardly before perking back up and running a finger over the creature’s glossy black wings. 

    “Oh, don’t get your feathers ruffled. The Vex and their tricks are nothing new to me.” 

    Curious, the machine-bird picked its head up and looked at Khadija. It clicked in confusion. 

    “Don’t worry your pretty little head, s’il te plaît. If anyone can track a Vex gate—given my experience—I hope to the stars it would be me.” 

—;; It was the wrong gate. 

    She knew it was wrong as soon as she set foot through it. Getting to the Black Garden was almost instantaneous, albeit disorienting—though she always had plenty of time to gather her bearings once on the other side. But this gate? 

    Well, this gate was a nuisance. 

    Colors blurred around her, some fading into one another and others flashing sharply into the mix—all quite a pain to take in with her one good eye. On top of that, she could hardly decide if she was standing still or actually moving when she attempted to step forward. Where was she anyway? And why was getting out of this portal taking so damn long? 

    Just as she decided she had enough (and was far too eager to whip her sidearm out and start shooting into the nothingness), she felt a phantom-like force shove at her back, throwing her off-balance and pitching her face-first into a vast expanse of sand. (Great, she thought. More damn sand in her armor.) A shadow loomed overhead, and in a panic, she kicked herself to her feet and rapidly drew her Vestian Dynasty from its holster, aiming the barrel down at— 

    A palm tree? Just where the hell was she? 

    Surveying the area around her, the woman could find little to no trace of human activity—until she laid eyes on a young man, dressed in odd garb that was accentuated with... skulls? It reminded her a bit of her gauntlets, but much less protective. 

    “Oi, you there!—l’homme avec le... crâne... chose,” she bellowed, still aiming down the sights of her gun. “What—what is this place?”

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Pick your poison.