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Two years ago, before the Unmaking
The desert of Mesa Roja and its unforgiving landscape continued to torment a small creature, as it desperately threaded underneath the scorching sun. It wore a pristine white fur, yet marred with a series of deep gashes and bruises across its body. The largest of his wounds was a jagged gash along his side, where a bandit's blade had sliced through his fur and into the flesh beneath. Blood oozed from the wound, staining the sand beneath him a dark, ominous red.
Its face, typically sharp and determined, was swollen and bruised. Its left eye was nearly swollen shut, and a trickle of dried blood ran down from a cut on his forehead, marring its otherwise pleasing features.
Its limbs bore the signs of its fierce struggle. Its arms and legs were battered and covered in scrapes and abrasions, as if it had fought tooth and nail to protect itself from the relentless blows of its assailants. Its claws, once sharp and deadly, were chipped and worn from the ferocity of its defense.
Despite the pain and exhaustion that radiated from his wounded body, there was a determination in its eyes that refused to be extinguished. Its injuries, though numerous, were not enough to break his spirit. However, no matter how relentless his indomitable spirit was, fatigue and exhaustion eventually overcame him.
Its eyelids grew heavy, and its body surrendered to the overwhelming weariness that had settled in its bones. The sounds of the desert, the gentle whisper of the wind and the distant cry of desert creatures, became hazy, fading into the background as its body gently fell against the grainy sand and into a deep and much-needed slumber.
For a time, the desert cradled him in its enigmatic embrace, offering a respite from the harsh realities of his waking world.
"Run, Burt!" his father's voice echoed in his mind, as if carried by the desert winds themselves. His father's eyes met his, conveying a mixture of love and fierce determination. "Go, my son. Escape! I'll hold them off."
Tears welled in young Burt's eyes, torn between his instinct to obey his father's command and the overwhelming desire to stay by his side. He knew that his father's words were not a request but a solemn order, one that came from a place of love and sacrifice.
As Burt watched, his father bravely faced the soldiers, his claws and courage unyielding. The skirmish that ensued was a chaotic whirlwind of dust, steel, and shouts, but his father stood his ground, defending Burt's escape with every fiber of his being.
Burt fled, his heart heavy with the memory of his father's sacrifice. He had escaped that day, but the guilt and sadness of leaving his father behind haunted him ever since. It was a memory that had shaped him, instilling within him a sense of duty and a determination to uncover the truths hidden within the desert's unforgiving embrace.
Burt's slumber was interrupted by the crackling of flames, a sound that seemed to come from the realm of dreams and merge with reality. His eyes fluttered open, and he found himself lying beside a campfire. The desert night still enveloped them in its cool embrace, and the flickering flames cast dancing shadows across the sands.
His gaze shifted to an old man hunched over the fire, expertly roasting a piece of meat on a skewer. The scent of cooking meat filled the air, mingling with the smoky aroma of the campfire.
Startled and disoriented, Burt struggled to sit up, his battered body protesting with aches and pains. He reached for his gun, pointing it at the old man. His voice, though strained from his injuries, was steady and demanding. "Now, hold on there, stranger. Where in tarnation are we, and who in the blazes are you?""
The old man turned to Burt, his eyes meeting the barrel of the gun. Instead of fear, he seemed to radiate a sense of calm and amusement. With a chuckle that carried the weight of years of experience, he said, "Ye be somewhere safe, mate. And as for meself, ye can call me Burke. Though I must say, pointing that weapon at me seems a tad unnecessary."
Burt's grip on the gun tightened, but Burke's laughter persisted, filling the desert night with its rich, salty sound. "I say ye rest a bit more mate," Burke continued, "ye've had quite some wounds there that need healin'."
Burt hesitated, the pain from his injuries and his exhaustion gnawing at him. The old man's calm demeanor and laughter were disarming, and the young mink couldn't help but lower his weapon slightly. "What do you want from me, Burke?" the mink demanded, a hint of vulnerability creeping into his voice.
Burke's smile remained warm and reassuring. "I ain't lookin' for trouble, mate. Just thought a weary traveler like ye' could use a hot meal and a bit of company," the old man assured, handing the mink a piece of the meat he just roasted.
As the tantalizing scent of the roasted meat wafted through the air, Burt's resolve began to soften. The scent of the roasted meat was irresistible, and Burt's stomach rumbled in agreement. He carefully holstered his gun, never taking his eyes off the old man, before accepting the offering with a nod of thanks. He sniffed the meat before taking a bite, its flavors exploding in his mouth, and he couldn't help but savor the delicious meal. It was a welcome respite from the harshness of the desert and the battle he had endured.
Overwhelmed by the tantalizing flavors of the roasted meat, Burt's initial suspicion of the old man gradually faded away. He continued to gnaw at the meat, its savory, smoky taste playing like a symphony on his taste buds.
Burke's grin widened, as he watched the mink enjoy the meal. "Now that's the spirit mate!" He had seen countless weary travelers in his time, and he understood their caution especially in harsh environments such as Mesa Roja's open desert.
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