The ship's doctor, a large-eared Zerda from the Himaat, finally manages to drift off to sleep, his mind cluttered with fragments of images and emotions from the previous day's (and night's) adventures.

At last, the fragments and sounds coalese into something that passes for reality. Roho is alone, in darkness – No, not the darkness he usually is in, but somehow he can sense that it IS darkness, in the insistent way of dreams, as they sometimes can be.

And then, Roho is no longer alone. There is … a presence here. Someone. A shadow against darkness. No, that doesn't make sense, but then, this is a dream. Dreams are that way, sometimes.

Roho tries to focus his sleeping eyes, something he hasn't done in a long time. It hasn't occurred to him yet that he's actually trying to see. He speaks, "Hello, I've been wondering when you'd get here. I've been waiting a while."

The shadow answers, without speaking or waving fingers or any such thing, somehow telling Roho that there are things he must see, things he must be shown now.

Roho finds himself standing, "Okay, I'm coming." He looks down at his paws, unable to see them in the darkness.

So you are.

Slowly, a strange sensation begins to hit Roho … it takes a while to realize … light. Blurred, but it's light. And there are some shadows below. Dark shadows against … no … his feet. That's it. He's looking down at his feet.

Roho is looking down at his feet, but not his feet. They are a very nice shade of turquoise. Or maybe that's green. Maybe brown?

Roho closes his eyes, "I'm not ready to see… " His vision continues, even with his dream-self's eyes closed.

The feet, in turn, are on the ground. It takes a moment to realize that it's grass. Bright orange grass. Isn't it annoying how, in some dreams, you can close your eyes and still see what you don't want to?

Slowly, the details begin to fill in. Roho is standing on a grassy hillside, the wind stirring the blades in waves as it passes over, rushing ahead of a storm front that is rolling in. A crackle of bright purple light on the horizon is followed a short while thereafter by a rumble of thunder. Down below the hill can be seen a river, trees … a lush land, with fertile soil, fields freshly planted, and buildings here and there dotting the landscape.

Roho walks up the hill, looking around. Something feels wrong with the landscape, but he can't tell. Are the colors right?

Grass is supposed to be green. The sky is supposed to be blue. Foxes are supposed to be red – or at least orange or brown or sometimes gray or black or white. With a bit more focusing, the colors begin to adjust to what they ought to be, Roho's memories from times with eyes that worked coming to the fore once more.

Roho savors the sights, not knowing that this is a dream really, but somehow deep inside knowing he should enjoy this while it lasts.

As Roho walks up the hill, he can see that there's something else at its crest. There, before him, is a walled city. No mortar is visible in the walls – they are formed by cut stone blocks, neatly fit together, with hardly a gap. Minerets top towers inside the city, and if it weren't for the lush countryside, Roho might imagine that he were in Abu Dhabi, looking upon these structures.

Presently, though, the gates are closed. And things darken, until Roho can see the inside of his eyelids, like he should, if he were really seeing, since his eyelids are closed as well.

Roho shakes his head, "No! Please!" He runs towards the walls to try to touch the gates, before his sight darkens fully.

But even with his eyes closed, there are still the scents and sounds. Thunder rumbling. Wind blowing. Branches swaying. Leaves rustling. Freshly plowed earth. Dromodon dung. A faint whiff of fish and baked bread. And the solid feel of wood underneath his hands – weathered but strong and sturdy.

There is also a faint whiff of … death … like a corpse that has dried out in the sun, the rank stench of decay mostly dispersed but still leaving its foul touch upon the bones and parched hide that remains.

Roho presses his paws against the gate, hanging his head and panting slightly, "What… what do I need to see?"

Roho's head rises at the smell of death. It's a very familiar smell to him. He starts walking in the direction of the breeze carrying it to him.

Whatever it is, it's right before him. With Roho's keen nose, he can scent what he did before, and wood.

"If you need to see," comes a female voice from nearby, "then perhaps you should open your eyes."

The tongue is like Zerdan … but some unknown dialect … though Roho has no trouble understanding. After all, it's a dream.

Roho shakes his head slowly, "That won't do any good. I can't… " He opens his eyes, his words dying off…

Before Roho can be seen a few wooden poles sticking from the ground. Hanging upon them are feline skulls with tatters of dried-out hide and hair still clinging in patches, where the scavengers haven't torn them away completely.

And, yes, he can certainly see. For the time being, the dream seems real enough as if he were actually there. Or, at least, so his senses seem inclined to tell him, even though part of him still knows better.

Roho rubs his eyes with his fists, an almost childlike gesture coming from such an old fox. He spends a moment looking at the skulls, then looks for the source of the voice.

"You are not from these parts," remarks the elderly vixen, her age only faintly hinted in her voice. "It is a bad time to be visiting." She leans heavily on a crooked staff, dressed in tattered and layered garments, facing away from the city gates, and toward the distant storm front.

Roho grasps at thin air, wondering why he left his staff behind. He settles for clasping his paws together, "I had to come. It was my time."

The old fennec woman looks at Roho curiously, then back at the storm. "Yes, it is time for all of us, though we dare not believe it. But I see these things. I know what doom approaches. No city walls will protect us. Not against death that comes on the air."

Roho stands beside the elderly fox watching the approaching storm, the red glow from the sky painting his features with sharp outlines. He knows that red is not the color for the sky, but it doesn't change to normal like the rest of the colors did. "How clearly do you see?"

The fennec woman answers, "I see what needs to be seen. I see that my time draws near. There is no point in looking any further than that. Our people will be no more. Behold – " She makes a sweeping gesture toward the skulls staked nearby. "Those are the emissaries who came from the Jungle Kingdom, to bid us to submit to them, to surrender all we have, and ourselves and our children as well. Who could accept such an 'offer'? We are not so spineless as that."

Roars echo from around the city walls. "Aha," the vixen mutters. "The Wyrms have been roused from their dens. Such strength and might they have! Who can stand before the Wyrms?"

Roho shakes his head, "I have been away too long. I can't help you. I can't… " He turns to the walls, "Who? Do you know?"

"Behold, our guardians," the vixen says, with little conviction. With a rumble and a crash, huge, serpentine forms appear from around the castle walls, with gaping maws that glisten with poison, which part into three lips. Their mouths contain spined tongues that end in sharp stingers that spell painful death for any they touch. The creatures roar and bellow and rumble down the hillside, completely ignoring the two vulpines standing at the gate.

Leathery wings snap out like tattered sails, and the Wyrms take to the air, each one borne on three wings. With mighty strokes, they rise upward, snaking and twisting toward the approaching clouds.

Roho blinks, "But those are… " He pauses. Has his memory faded that much? Gooshurm? They never were such before, were they? "Where do the guardians come from?"

"The pride of our great city, the pride of our people," the vixen answers. "They have served us for as long as history has been written."

Roho rasps, "When I was young, the Gooshurm served us in our farms, and as our companions. These are… "

Roho falters in confusion.

Amongst the clouds, bright lights can be seen … floating along, just underneath the dark curtain that threatens to blot out the sky. Lightning crackles. There are painful howls, and balls of fire erupt and plummet downward to the earth in the distance.

Soon after, some of the Wyrms come rushing back, the way they came, howling in what must be fear, even to a creature that should inspire fear so easily in others.

Roho rasps, "Fire from the sky … why must things change?"

"And there go our guardians," the vixen sighs.

Roho rasps, "We never needed guardians before. What do we have that others should want?"

"Ourselves. Our land. That we even exist on our own is an affront to those who think it their manifest destiny to rule the world," the vixen answers.

Roho closes his eyes, "I don't want to see this. Blindness is a blessing. We are so few, and we use so little. How could we be in anyone's way?"

Even as Roho's eyes close, the clouds finish blanketing the sky, and the storm is upon the hillside, thunder rumbling all about.

Roho's ears are pushed back in the rushing air, "Can they be stopped?"

The thunder seems somehow different. Like a lion's roar. And then it becomes a voice, though it seems a voice not used to speaking, and takes an effort to make out the words.

"They will destroy themselves," the vixen answers, her voice barely carrying over the wind. "Beyond that, no."

Roho speaks uncertainly, "But we will survive. We always have."

"Will we?" the vixen asks. "Maybe some of our brethren will escape notice. Perhaps by the sea. But I have dispensed with grasping for hope long ago. I am but an old woman, with no family, and my husband and sons have died in the wars. My time will come soon enough regardless."

Roho lowers his head. Tears run down the cheeks of his sleeping body, "Wars? We can't fight!"

The vixen replies, "Perhaps we will never fight again."

The rumbling voice in the clouds continues, full of boasts and threats. Gradually, it becomes distinguishable. "Since you have become our enemies, you will be made an example of to all others who live in this fertile land… "

Roho rasps, "We cannot fight. But we cannot run, we have nowhere to go. Must we die?"

The rumbling continues, "You take pride in this fertile land, which gives life to anything you plant in it. No longer. Behold, as your land dies, and becomes your enemy!" In the distance, the lightning strikes become far more frequent … until there is a steady wave of burning light that is slowly sweeping across the land. Where it passes, green gives way to dull brown and gray, the soil robbed of its nutrients and the vegetation covering it, and reduced to bare skeletons of rock and sand.

The voice continues, after several more thunder crashes, "And your strong guardians you take such pride in … behold as their strength is taken from them! No longer may they ride upon the clouds, but instead will be forced to crawl upon the ground and eat dust! They will be no longer a source of pride or fear, but a joke – pests to make a laughingstock out of you!" This is echoed by several anguished cries from the direction of where the creatures fled.

Roho bends to one knee, feeling the thick grass, "Our… our land? There have been such changes… "

Several more rumbles echo across the countryside, and then the voice intones, "And we shall not overlook your stiff-necked resistance to the order we bring. You vain people, who think yourselves so beautiful! No longer!" Several shrieks emit from the city itself, and the vixen suddenly cries out and topples to the ground, writhing in pain.

Roho turns and presses his paws against the wall, his head hanging again, "Please, no more. Enough… "

As the old woman slumps on the ground, there is a rending sound as something bursts out of the back of her ragged shawl … a long spine that protrudes and lengthens, then several more. On her hand, the fur begins to fade and then fall away, as green scales burst through the skin.

Roho cries out and falls to her side, paws trembling. He opens his mouth, but says nothing…

With a sound like cracking bone, her right arm begins changing as well … forming into a chitinous shell, bright blue … like that of a crab's pincer.

Roho backs away slowly, eyes wide in horror…

Screams still echo from within the city, and the destruction continues across the countryside, while the thunder rumbles like cruel laughter.

Roho closes his eyes now, blocking out the sights…

The thunder slowly dies away, and the points of light floating beneath the clouds drift away, the storm retreating along with them, to reveal a burning sun that now blazes with greater intensity upon the glistening yellow-and-grey desert below.

Roho opens his eyes at the sudden sunlight. He stands, feeling the sand under his feet, "But this … this is how it's always been!"

A hissing sound comes from the ground where the old vixen should be, and at last forms into something like words. "Ssssso, you are not changed… you are sssspared… "

Roho turns to look at the vixen… or what was the vixen…

"I did not wisssh to sssseeeee the future, but I cannot closssse my eyessss, even asssss death comesss… " the once-vixen hisses. "Our people are not quite dead … but who can heal usssss? Who will come… ?"

Roho crouches beside her, "I am old, and this is not my life… I can't do anything!"

Two mismatched eyes gaze weakly back at Roho, from a face that is a collage of so many strange beasts and peoples, some entirely alien and impossible to place. "I ssssee… you musssst… "

Roho rasps, "I must?"

"… one will come … bearing the magic of those who came before … " the voice croaks. "… only then will the cursssse end… "

Roho rasps, "Magic? Magic from the jungle? But if they destroyed us, why should they help us?"

"… one with … healing … " the voice rattles, as the body of the once-vixen relaxes.

Roho rasps, "But who can heal this?"

The vixen does not answer. The wind blows a spray of sand up the hillside, hitting her face. She does not flinch.

Roho stands slowly, "I can't heal land. Nobody can heal land… "

The dream's grasp seems not so strong now. Somehow, Roho knows that all he has to do is will himself to do so, and he should wake. Already, the colors seem to be reverting to a madman's palette.

Roho strains to see a few last glimpses as his sight fades again…

The rolling sands of the Himaat stretch out before Roho, for as far as the eye can see.

Roho picks up a pawful of sand as he awakens, letting it sift through his paw, "But this is home… " He awakens with an empty closed fist.

Complete darkness again. But this time, it is only the darkness of one without sight. No murmuring "voices" in the back of one's head. No strange sensations … just Roho's bed and the creaking of wood.