Winter in Sturt Stony Desert is between June and August, and maximum daily temperatures average between 83.84 and 74.3°F with overnight minimums averaging between 44.06 and 46.94°F. Winter days in Sturt Stony Desert are moderate, but can be quite cool if windy, dropping to around 69.44 °F.
The Key
The afternoon was dark and silent. Wind whipping the sand in eddies, blowing it with unwelcome, stinging vitriol into eyes and faces. The world was bereft of all but the biting cold prevailing wind, and relentlessly driven sand. The black sticks of the remaining bushes and trees shuddered in its invisible grasp. There was no bird song, or a myriad of desert creatures scurrying about their lives. It was an almost dead land, encompassed in an equally ghastly silence.
Most had gathered about the fire in the great cave. There was really little else to occupy the time, and the time had moved slowly here of recent months. Though these people were in essence a community and relied on cohesion to survive, of late there had been little of that. The morale that held them all together was almost stripped threadbare.
Maya sat listlessly, putting the final touches on a pair of goat hide pants that she had crafted out of duty and fear for her new master Gareth. As always her mind was far away reveling in another place, a distant time. Youthful mind and desires longing for the man who had gone away, he who had been exiled into the cold and had never returned.
Maya pined for him, her golden man. He had spared her minuscule life after all. Then just as cruelly he had been sent away. She struggled with all that had happened, and all that had been done. Her new master was bad tempered, possessive, and cruel. He struck her at the slightest displeasure. His only redeeming feature was he did not wish to share his pretty prize. Maya would every evening close her eyes in the reviled man's embrace, trying to be grateful for the warmth and protection he offered, giving him her body, but never once her mind.
Raissa sat close by, young Eirik swaddled in rabbit furs on her lap. The baby blissfully immune from the cold. Maya studied the sleeping infant closely, he was a captivating wonder to her. His skin so soft and new, eyes so bright.
She loved the way his chubby little fingers would settle about hers, and marveled that someday he would grow into the essence of the fierce and large men she sometimes feared. Often she day dreamed about having a little one of her own. At every opportunity she would volunteer to help mind young Eirik, something Raissa was very grateful for. The two girls had become very close friends in the process.
Sven crouched to the other side of Raissa, dwarfing her. Maya found her eyes often strayed to regard him. He was the brother of the man she had lost after all. He was big and strong, a bull of a man. Neck thick, shoulders powerful, chest and stomach flat and hard. His arms the size and girth of the logs he tossed so effortlessly into the bonfire.
She often stopped to wonder whether that which was whispered about him was true? Was he really less of a man, gelded like a horse or steer? He did have a child after all.
Perhaps it was only a rumor borne out of jealousy? Maya was also angry at Sven, in a resigned kind of way. She would not dare confront a man like that, but resentment burned inside her. The way Sven had shunned her when her protector had been driven away. He was Aran's kin, why did Sven not step forward to protect her and claim her for his own? Surely he could have easily?
His inaction bewildered Maya entirely, and she begrudged him for them with the simple mind of a vengeful little girl.
Sven on the other hand was oblivious to the attentions of the nubile young woman, well almost oblivious. Sometimes he did find he looked at her longingly, and in his frustration and torment had to look away.
It was hard to reconcile with what had been done to him, and some days it was even harder to justify carrying on. When he felt this way he would hold his son, cradling him in his massive arms. He would remind himself Eirik was the future, and he would not short change that. He tried not to dwell on how long they could all stay here, and the disturbing conversation he had had with Bennett some days beforehand.
In his many days soldiering at the outbreak of the great war he had seen firsthand the effects of demoralization on an otherwise cohesive band of people. He could see clearly that this was well at work here. He had to confess things did look bleak, if the perpetual darkness did not abate soon, there would possibly be very little viable future for anyone.
Sven didn't want to admit that, after all he didn't fear death. Though this realization seemed to hurt more now he had a son, and sometimes when he gazed on his little boy it hurt so bad he felt he would tear inside. How could one man change the world? Yet for his son to have any semblance of a life above base savagery he felt it was his duty.
Will squinted against the light from the flames, trying to see better. He was applying a precious metal arrowhead to a waiting shaft. The barbs were cruel, specifically designed to not be so easily be removed from their intended target, but to instead maximize damage. He winced as he inadvertently caught his thumb on one of the sharp barbs in carelessness borne of repetition, and sucked the blood that beaded there.
There has to be a place of better things he thought, most troubled. The cities after all these years must no longer be contaminated. Was that not the original plan, to evacuate, survive and return? However they never had, they had camped here, raided, and for a time had prospered.
However Will was not getting any younger, he had seen too many good men die, and now the bickering had begun. There were some days he just wanted to pack up his few rudimentary possessions and chance venturing south. Sven was a coward, it could not be so bad back there Will ruminated, surely?
Renard sat chained and silent. The lawless group were fracturing by the day. He had to hold on to that hope, for it was all he had. Mostly his mind was far away with his own people. He wondered how his parents and fellow villagers had fared with the abrupt weather change? Surely the beautiful stretch of farm land he called home would be decimated he thought sadly, though Renard felt that his father would as always emerge the capable and fair minded leader. The wizened Stephan would have an answer for his people, he would provide them with a strategy and hope.
Renard longed to be amongst them again, to live in a civilized manner. He also castigated himself over the fate of his sister. Why did life have to be so damn unfair. He wondered what he would tell them, his parents? How he could say, Mother and Father I have failed, I could not bring Frances home. He was not looking forward to making that admission he had to confess.
Carlos felt his master rise, pulling the furs tighter about him, grateful for the comfort of the fireside. He felt drowsy and still very weak, and again closed his dark lashed eyes. He had lost his desire completely to fight anymore. The path of least resistance had at last become very appealing. Broken, his master had called it, perhaps, but he no longer cared.
Pig eyed Bennett warily as he watched the immense warrior stand. Something in his leader's stance instantly relayed to the hideously scarred man the warning signal. He retreated a ways from the fire. Though battered and grotesque from battle scars and unfortunate disfigurement, Pig was a wary survivor. Well aware his leader showed him little accord, and he was well down in the pecking order here. He had no desire to become the center of the man's attention.
The others took somewhat longer to register that their leader commanded their notice. The small talk and superfluous noises died away as Bennett took in all the surrounding faces that peered up at him in the firelight.
"Only the hardiest and the most fortunate are left." Bennett said strongly, all eyes trained on him, man, woman, slave and warrior. "I know there are many here who are poised to run, and I know who you are." His deep voice boomed.
