Manshin of the East

[Manshin]

Manshin was the son of a traveling merchant from Kara-Tur, a man called Shin-Tso who was born of the Mantis clan. Shin had been a soldier in his youth during the clan wars, and though he had always maintained the dicipline and skill of his days in the military, he had since retired to a life on the road. His caravan traveled far to the West, trading goods. It was on one such trip that he met Manshin's mother in a small village within the Horde lands. She was a woman of Rashemon, strong and proud with fair skin and long brown hair. Manshin took after his father in appearance, but retained the brown hair of his mother, and his eyes were slightly more rounded than his fathers. He grew up in this village, but often traveled with his father in the trade caravans headed to and from Kara-Tur along the Golden Way.
One fateful day, when Manshin was 9, he and his father were traveling East through a mountainous region on the way to Shou-Lung in Kara-Tur. It was here that hooded and masked bandits raided the caravan. The attackers killed everyone without mercy. The young boy was forced to watch as his father was drugged from afar by poisoned needles and then slain without mercy. It seemed impossible then, that a man of such skill and honor could be killed by something as wretched as poison... all of his long years of training had equated to nothing. Manshin's small world collapsed.
After cutting the head from the boy's father, one of the assassins slowly walked toward young Manshin, intending to finish the grizzly work which had been done here... to kill the final small surviver of this slaughter. The dark man stood before Manshin for just a moment before he raised his blade to deliver the killing stroke. To the surprise of all who watched, the young boy avoided the skillful attack that would have ended his life. The attacker was furious and humiliated, and his next strike would have slain Manshin had a commanding voice not halted the attack. One of the raiders, an older man, saw Manshin's quick reaction. Though he knew it to be luck, he recognized the boys potential.
This man, Nakimuru, took Manshin as a slave in order to help train his only son. For amongst the clan, there were no other boys of close age. Manshin came to live among the Yurikki-Naku ninja clan. They were Assassins and raiders hired by enemies of Shoa-Lung for dark purpose. For the next several years, the young boy was a sparing partner for Nakimuru’s gifted boy, Kumaki. The beatings he received were harsh, but Manshin grew in strength. Gradually, Kumaki and his father learned to respect the boy, even if he was never treated well. In Manshin’s 14th year, Kumaki died of a sudden illness, leaving his father utterly overcome with bitter grief. Over time, his state became worse, bordering on madness. Perhaps out of desperate longing to have his son back, Nakimuru began to treat Manshin as his own. Though he was still very harsh, Manshin was no longer treated as a slave. The rest of the clan where outraged. Bad enough that one of mixed blood live within there home, but to be treated as an equal was unthinkable. Still, Nakimuru carried great honor amongst them, and his will was not challenged. Manshin trained as one of the clan, though always he hated what they were.
After his first mission, when he stained his hands with innocent blood, he began to long for death out of hate for what he had become. He knew than that either he must leave, or he must take his own life.
Eventually, Nakimuru became ill. He knew he would die soon, and with his death, Manshin would soon follow. He also knew Manshin's deep discontent and loathing of his "people". After long indecision, Nakimuru decided to aide his adopted son in escaping. As Manshin prepared for his second mission, his father told him of his decision to help. While in enemy territory, Manshin struck out at his most hated clan rival (the same ninja who had killed his father, and nearly him) and fled into the mountains. With the aide of Nakimuru’s deception, the clan knew nothing of his escape for over a week, giving the Easterner time to escape. Eventually they did pursue him however. On this dark road, Manshin met another fugitive. A Ronin samurai named Mitsiguru, one of the few survivors of a ruined clan, hunted by his enemies. The man was wounded by an arrow and near death when Manshin happened across him. Seeking to part with his dark past, Manshin helped the Ronin, and stitched his wounds. They became friends soon after. It was with the help of Mitsiguru's great skill, and his deadly blade, Korfuji, that Manshin was able to fight off the assassins of his clan when at last they tracked him down. Both men, knowing that they would never be safe within Kara-Tur, decided to flee into the West where perhaps they could find peace away from constant war and death. They traveled for over a year, making their way from village to village, always headed west. It was past the furthest outposts of Kara-Tur, along the Silk Road that the Yuriki Naku's greatest assassin caught up with them. The Ogre mage Juko was a merciless killer who had few peers in his black profession. Invisible, he followed his victims into the wilderness, far from help. When he struck, only Manshin's quick reactions saved him from death. A swift dodge turned a mortal wound into a deep cut and broken rib. It would have ended badly, but Mitsiguru was Kensai, a master warrior, and he was not caught unprepared. He and Juko battled fiercely as the wounded Manshin watched, unable to help. When it seemed that the Ronin would overcome his powerful enemy, Juko hurled powder into his opponent’s eyes, blinding him. Then he impaled Mitsiguru on the end of his Nagunaki. With the last of his strength, though impaled upon the Ogre's spear, the dying warrior cried an oath to his ancestors and cut the head from his opponent. Manshin went to his friend, before his life was gone, and heard the Ronin's last words. Mitsiguru asked that Manshin take his sword, Korfuji, so that no others would dishonor it or his family. He told Manshin that the ancient blade must only be wielded by a master, lest dishonor fall upon his family’s name. After this, he died. Torn with grief and loss, Manshin continued west. Dark thoughts were about him, and bitterness clutched his heart. As he crossed the trackless miles separating the East from the West, only one thing kept him from falling to despair, an honor debt. Upon receiving Korfuji from his dying friend, Manshin came to realize that his hopes of finding peace in the West were lost. Korfuji could only be wielded by a master, anything less would be a dishonor to the blade, it's master, and it's master's ancestors. Thus, Manshin, wishing to honor his greatest friend, decided that he would train with Korfuji and walk the path of Kensai, weapon master.

[Manshin]

Over many thousands of miles, through lands both hostile and peaceful, Manshin made his slow progress Westward. In keeping his honor debt, the Easterner came to know little peace in his journey. Fighting from the borders of Rashemon, to the walls or Cormyr, his skills grew by the day, yet through both victory and defeat, Manshin looked forward only to the day when his debt would be fullfilled, and he could at last know peace away from war and death.

Then, at last, that day came. After long training and many battles, Manshin was bestowed the honorable title of Kenasai by the master of the Mantis Temple on a spring morning. At last he had brought honor to the blade Korfuji and set the memory of Mitsiguru's ancestors to peace. The sacrfice of a noble warrior for one who was of little worth was no longer in vein.
Yet, it was with a troubled mind, that the Easterner found that that peace had eluded him. His dream of giving up the warrior's life had faded like a veil of mist upon the onset of a harsh reality. He had found a new home, but it was in a land where enemies pressed the boarders by the day.
Korfuji had awakened, and with it had come power. Manshin knew that he could not, in honor, live in peace when he possessed the strength and skill to help this floundering land find the strength to stand against her enemies.

With a sigh, Manshin opened his eyes. Squinting into the morning sun, he rose from the earth and shouldered Korfuji, the blade's graceful curve coming to rest against his back, and headed into the wilds of Cormyr. A child of conflict he had been born, and so he would remain. Peace is bought with the spilling of blood. And bonds are forged through sacrifice. Korfuji, the Wind Walker, would not rest long in her scabbard.

[Manshin]

A wind sighed mournfully through the trees, and water churned under the falls. The easterner had brought his friend here in the hope that in this place of beauty, Chril might find some measure of peace… away from all of this pain and anger. For a moment, the easterner envied him. Lying there, dead, Chril was free from all of it. Was that not peace? As Manshin looked upon him, it almost seemed as though his friend was simply asleep; that he might awaken, untouched by the corruption and deceit which had stained his noble heart. The deep cuts, which had torn the life from him, were a harsh reminder of the grim truth however.
Manshin felt cold despair creep over him as he knelt before his last true friend, the last man whom he had truly trusted. How many of those whom he loved would die because of him? How many more friends would he be forced to bury?
The others told him Chril’s death was not his fault, but they were wrong. Deep in the hollow space of Manshin’s heart, he knew the truth. It had been his idea, his words that had placed Chril into the black jaws of Bane. As surely as Manshin’s hand had guided Korfuji in its killing stroke, his words had guided Chril to his doom.
Bitter memories came back to him then. He saw again the faces off all those whom he had killed… some had fallen by his hand, others in his defense. So much spilled blood. His hands felt wet with it. His spirit felt blackened by the things he had seen, by the things he had done. When would it end? When would he be able to set aside Mitsiguru’s blade? How many had to die before there could be peace?
Manshin, holding Chril’s lifeless and scarred hand in his own, kissed his forehead, and then rose to his feet. He nearly gave in to his desire. He nearly took Chril to be raised, but the noble man who was once Chril would not have wanted that. It was no way to live; enthralled to evil. Better that the man be left in peace and remembered for the honorable friend and brother he once was.
Manshin buried Chril in that peaceful valley, far away from a troubled world. Upon the stone marker, he hung a thin chain from which the faint glint of gold glistened upon the edge of a tiny harp.
Shouldering Korfuji, as he shouldered grief and sorrow, Manshin walked alone into the wood.
As the sun rode across the azure sky, one by one, cloaked and hooded figures stepped from the forest to say farewell to their lost brother.

[Manshin]

Seperate from the biography above, this is the workings of the novel I began writing about Manshin of the East a few years back. Its been a while since I have worked on it, but I think ill start posting it bit by bit here for people to read if they like. Hopefully, that will encourage me to continue my work.

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It is often said that the fortunes of men are strange in the lands of Faerun. I have always thought of them as the blossoms of a cherry tree. As each one falls from the branch, it must find a path. Some blossoms float gently upon the morning breeze and come to rest near the tree from which they fell; yet others are cast far into the world upon impartial winds. In the end however, by whichever path the fortunes set them upon, all reach the ground and come to rest at last.

The desert wind blew harsh. On the eastern-most edge of the Great Waste was a desert known as the Quoya. It was a place of utter desolation in which few things lived, either walking or growing. From merciless stony badlands to endless seas of shifting sand, the mighty desert stood as an unbreakable barrier to all who traveled through it. For hundreds of miles the desert went ever on and on until at last one stood before the legendry Dragonwall, ancient protector of the Shou Empire.
Yet through this unforgiving land there wound a famous road known as the Golden Way. In all of Faerun, this was the only known path joining the east and the west, bringing trade from the great empire of Shou Lung into the west, and back again. In many places, the Golden Way was not a road at all, but a fragmented and infrequent line of encampments, caravanserai, and very rarely, small settlements. For all but the most experienced travelers, loosing ones way in these unfathomable reaches was an ever-present danger. Many a man had been claimed by thirst or by the many hazards of the Quoya, wandering lost within its seemingly endless boarders. On this day, there walked such a man.
He remembered little of this place, though he had been here before. He had followed the Golden Way as a boy in his father’s caravan, but that was a different life. One he no longer knew.
Many miles back, he must have strayed from the path, but he neither knew, nor cared. As he trudged endlessly forward, half dead, through the unending sands and blistering heat, his thoughts were ever behind him. They were filled with bitterness, loss and pain.
There was nothing left for him in the East, and it did not matter if his path led him to death. His name was Manshin, and this is his tale.


A strong gust came upon the traveler, causing him to cover his eyes with his worn shawl. It was the first time he had bothered to look up for some time. The movement stung. The wound on his shoulder was deep and caked with dried blood. As his eyes lifted to the horizon, he saw nothing except unending sands and stones, distorted by waves of heat. He was lost, but what did it matter? So long as he kept west, so long as he need never look back again.
With a grunt, Manshin shifted his small pack. It was light. There was no food left. It seemed to matter little however, as he had no doubt he would die of thirst long before he succumbed to starvation.
He became aware that his head was burnt and blistered. He had forgotten his hood, so lost was he in thought. With a groan, Manshin lifted his sword, and extended the strap upon its black lacquered scabbard. He slipped the weapon behind his shoulder, safe within it’s cloth wrap, the graceful curve coming to rest against his back. Reaching up, he pulled his hood over his head, wincing as the dirty gray fabric brushed the raw burnt flesh of his shaven head. Then he continued on.
For all the rest of that day, the wanderer trudged ever onward. As the murderous Sun began to dip into the sands, he realized his aching legs would carry him no further. He stumbled over to a jutting stone, large enough perhaps to shield him from the wind. Sliding the sword and his pack from his shoulder, Manshin sunk to the ground, his breath coming in a harsh rasp. He had walked many miles this day, as he had every day. Though they still throbbed painfully, his legs buzzed with pleasure at being allowed to sit at last. Within moments, the easterner slept.

It was a strange place that during the day, one burned, and during the night, one froze. As the sun sank and the air began to cool, Manshin awoke to the feeling of dust and grit against his forearms. Blinking his bloodshot eyes, he loosened the straps of his kote one by one, and then pulled the bracers from his forearms. After brushing his dusty forearms off in the cool air, he used the hem of his shawl to wipe down each kote, feeling the small notches and jags along the length of the iron bars. As the soiled fabric ran across a particularly deep grove cut across two of the bars in his left kote, near the wrist, the man’s brow furrowed; the whisper of a memory he did not wish to recall.
Brushing it aside, he leaned over and dropped the bracers onto his pack. Manshin regarded them for a moment, wondering if perhaps he should leave them. They were his only armor, but then, he had little use for armor here. Such things could not protect one from the desert.
He looked back to the sword lying upon his lap. Gently, he unwound the cords of fabric and pulled back the protective cloth to reveal wrappings of fiery red leather along a long graceful handle. The blade was called Korfuji, and there were few others that rivaled it, either in beauty, or in razor edged efficiency. The easterner's gaze lingered long upon the exotic weapon. Such a waste that it should come to be lost in these empty sands. The ancestral blade of the Shimoza clan belonged at the side of its master; a thing that could not happen again. Korfuji no longer had a master.
Shaking his head, Manshin tried to think of something else. The rumble of his stomach brought his mind to the present. Tomorrow would be his last day. He shook his nearly empty bladder with a long sigh. Unless he found water, he would probably not live to see mid-day. Manshin was a realist; he knew that he would find none. These lands would not yield. Better that Korfuji be swallowed by the sands then dishonored at the touch of another. Bad enough the blade had endured his.
A scampering on his leg drew him from his dark thoughts. Looking down, he saw a group of large red beetles crawling toward the stone he was leaning against. One of them had climbed onto him. Absently, he grabbed it up. It had unusual markings, but seemed to be harmless. With a helpless shrug, he bit off the front end of the insect and began to crunch it. It had a rancid, smoky flavor to it, and it was difficult to avoid spitting up. At last though, he forced it down a dry throat and put the rest of the creature into his mouth. As he crunched away at the beetle, he gathered up a few of its fellows into his empty food sac and tied the string. He had not the energy to go after the others who had scurried under the stone.
With a faint smile, Manshin thought it cruel irony that food had just walked into his lap, but he would still die of thirst. He hoped perhaps the desert spirits would also find humor in making it rain on him. With a sigh, the easterner shifted, trying to ease his tired muscles. Rain seemed unlikely.
Brushing sand from his travel stained clothes, the man gathered his cloak about him more tightly. With grim determination, he fought to ignore the rapidly chilling air. He slid the cloth wrap from Korfuji’s scabbard. Using the hem of his tattered shawl again, he slowly began to polish the glistening black lacquered wood. Absently, he ran his hand over the tight leather wrappings, feeling just below them, the intricate relief of the wind and furies, which graced the length of the over-long handle. The gentle motion soothed him. He forgot the cold. He forgot the desert. Again, as he did so often, Manshin began to slip back into the past.

[Manshin]

"Move faster boy," spoke the tall man over his shoulder, "or else climb up next to Hyiku.” Manshin hurried his pace, but his feet were sore. His father's caravan had been traveling much faster than usual. Though only nine, he had made the trip from his home to Shou-Lung twice with his father. It was a journey that took over 3 months.
Manshin came beside his father who walked at a brisk pace, one hand stroking his long gray moustache, the other holding his walking stick.
"You are getting tired already Manshin? Ahhh... Perhaps you were not meant for life on the roads, eh?" Shin-Tso smiled down at his son from beneath the broad round brim of his woven straw coolie hat, and tousled the boy’s dark brown hair.
The boy gave his father a wry look and said; "I'm not tired, but I worry for the oxen... why do we move so quickly?"
His father looked back along the caravan line. Four wagons; all laden with trade goods and sundries from the west; eight Oxen, and including he and his son; nine souls moved quickly up the mountain road leading through the Shou pass. Tso-Shin had made this trip countless times and he knew these roads well.
In the past, all caravan routes in the Empire had been well patrolled, and so the merchant had only hired a few guardsmen. Still, never one to take chances, Tso-Shin had paid a few extra silver tails to insure that his mercenaries were experienced. Of those guardsmen whom he had hired, two were Ronin: masterless Samurai who now sold their skills with sword and bow to the highest bidder.
He himself had served in the Emperor’s army during the great clan wars with his oldest friend and traveling companion, Hyiku. Though that was many years past, both men still trained everyday. That is why when he left, he had felt certain that his caravan would be safe enough from anything they were likely to encounter along the Golden Way. After passing words with a group of merchants from Shou-Lung last night around the fire, however, he no longer felt so certain.
"The oxen will be fine Manshin. We move quickly because I say to move quickly. Do not question me,” he said at last, frowning at his son.
He knew the small caravan was well protected, but the rumor of war had reached his ear, and he knew it would be wise to get out of the mountains as quickly as they could.

The boy had seen his father's eye wandering ever to the forest along the roadside. It was as though he were sensing danger to be lurking just beyond the thick follage; whispering among the slender bamboo stalks. Manshin thought of the people they had met last night at the campfire. The short one with the long nose had spoken of clan war in the south. He had said that the battle would come to the great city itself! Manshin had thought little of such talk. He had been within the Imperial city. What could possibly attack such a place?
His home was a small village called Namishi, deep in the grasslands of the Great Waste. Coming from such a bare life, the city of the Emperor was a thing beyond belief. Despite his own skepticism last night, today he could see that his father had not taken the words of the merchants so lightly. This made the boy uneasy.
As the miles wore on and the sun began to set, his unease calmed. Apprehension gave way to weariness. Manshin did not wish to disappoint his father, but his feet felt sore and bruised and his legs felt wobbly. The sky was red, and though they would surely strike camp soon, he doubted he could walk another ten steps.
At last, the boy gave in to his aching body; "I am going to see how Hyiku is doing father."
Shin-Tso gave a quick nod to the boy and turned his gaze back to the wood with a faint smile. It was not long before his face grew grim again as he looked out upon the deep shadows under the forest boughs.
Manshin leapt up onto the lead wagon beside Hyiku who was driving the oxen absently. The old warrior leaned over to let the boy pass, armor and bones creaking. Manshin pushed aside the flap and threw himself upon his cushion, thankful to be off his feet.
"Hyiku," Manshin called up to the grizzled old driver, "We are we almost out of the mountains?"
Hyiku looked back over his shoulder and answered in his gravely voice; "It will be two days at least boy, I thought you had done this before!?" The grizzled old man chuckled softly to himself.
Manshin sighed and looked down at his sore feet. At least the caravan was making good time. He could not wait to see Shou-Lung again. Always his father was happy when they reached the city. Manshin would have rice candy, and see fireworks. For a moment, he wished his mother and sisters had come too, but little Anwah was to young for the road. Mother would stay at home until his youngest sister was older. His father always regretted leaving his beautiful wife behind. In Rashemon, her homeland, Ludmilia was considered quite beautiful, and her long thick amber hair always brought in the best prices from charmed customers. Ah well, thought Manshin, it was probably for the best. His two older sisters would have picked on him the whole way. At least going alone with father, he could bring home rice candy so that Eistel and Aninya would have to treat him like a prince if they wanted some.
"How are your arms today?" said Hyiku. Absently, Manshin began to rub his bruised forearms, remembering his stern lessons from the morning. Father pulled his strikes less, as the boy grew taller. Sometimes he wished he could stop growing.
"They are better," said the boy, somewhat weakly.
"Well you need to learn to sidestep more... but you are improving. Learning to fight will keep you healthy and strong, like me! You listen to your father!" Said the scruffy old warrior.
"Yes Hyiku, I do."
The old man grunted in satisfaction. He loved to give advice. He was much older than Shin-Tso, and had taught the boy’s father to survive during the dark years of the clan war. These day's, with no protégée of his own, he took to advising Manshin about this or that. But in truth, the boy didn't mind. He had always liked Hyiku very much and thought him kind.
The boy began un-strapping his worn sandals when he heard someone from the rear of the caravan call out harshly. More raised voices soon followed, these were from the guardsmen. Then came many small thuds and taps. Manshin looked nervously out past the chests through the rear of the wagon, but the canvas obscured his view. "Hyiku? What is happening?" No response came. Manshin threw aside the flap and saw the old warrior leaning over forward in his seat as though asleep. "Hyiku?" Said the boy in confusion.
His father shouted harshly, jarring Manshin’s attention away from the old man. "Manshin! Get back!"
The boy looked over to his father, then the blood drained from his face. Out of the dark trees, shadowy forms moved quickly down a rocky slope toward the line of wagons. The glint of steel flashed in their hands, and behind dark masks and hoods, the gleam of bloodlust could be seen in their eyes. Shin-Tso made a quick movement to the left and drew out his sword, the blade catching the light of the setting sun. The boy watched in shock as two of the hooded shadows closed the distance toward his father, the rest moving toward the back of the caravan.
"Hyiku!" Manshin shoved the old warrior, "Wake up!"
The old warrior made no response; instead, he slumped to the side. Two small, feathered darts stuck out of his neck. Manshin drew back in horror. It was so vivid; his old master's flesh was pale white and a line of thick spit hung from his lip. Everything went quiet as he looked upon his father's dearest friend, Hyiku. Was this... death?
Reality came back with the sound of a desperate cry of anger... his father. Shin-Tso staggered, ripping a small dart from his shoulder and throwing it savagely to the ground. The masked men were so close. Fear gripped the boy tightly. His father began to stagger, clutching his arm.
Manshin reached for Hyiku's Naginata and then leapt down from the wagon, screaming for his father. Hearing his son’s cries, the warrior jerked his head around, his eye's wide: "RUN! Get back Manshin! GO!" The voice was slurred... strange, as though his father had had far too much Kumiss.
The first of the two men reached Tso-Shin. He was low, like an animal and began to circle the staggering merchant. The other came soon after, a chain stretched taunt between his hands. Tso-Sung lunged clumsily for the first man. His skill was gone, lost in the poison that coursed through his veins. As his blade went wide of its mark, easily evaded by the crouching shadow, the other enemy struck out with the talon-tipped chain, wrapping it around Tso-Shin’s wrist. With a yank, the dark man jerked Manshin’s father to the right and sent his sword spinning to the ground. With his back exposed, the crouching man sprang forward and thrust his short straight blade into the boy’s father. Shin-Tso slumped to his knees. He looked at the tip of the blade which had pierced him. For just a moment, there was only silence, and then his poison-numbed mind found focus as that silence was broken by the scream of his child. As life left him, a prayer for his child was upon his lips.
The assassin jerked the sword out and in the same motion brought the blade around and down, cutting Shin-Tso's head from his body. The horrified boy watched his father fall upon the cold ground. He was still screaming. His vision was a black tunnel in which only his father's lifeless body existed.
Something entered that tunnel. The shadow approached Manshin in slow calm strides. The bloody sword held loosely in his left hand. Manshin looked into his shrouded face. The eyes were young. Cold. The eyes of a demon. Only then did the boy realize that he was on his knees.
The other demon stood behind, following more slowly as the young, cold one approached. There were screams coming from far away, but Manshin did not hear them any longer. The boy was shaking in fear, but something else was there as well. Hate, deep and resounding.
His small hands clenched tightly around Hyiku's Naginata. He lunged from his knees, swinging the long spear with all of the strength his small trembling form could give. The young one with the cold eyes stepped casually back, allowing the blade to go by. It seemed to Manshin that the killer was laughing, though he uttered no sound. There were others watching. All masked demons. No one else was alive. Everyone was dead like his father!
He swung again with all of his fury. This time, the masked demon did not step aside, he slipped his own blade under the spear, driving it up high and with blinding speed kicked the shaft hard, flinging the weapon from the boy. The man's blade went up, gripped in both hands, and then came streaking down at Manshin like a striking snake.

The other ninja stood by as the last, small survivor prepared to join his father. One of them in particular watched with interest. This boy's death was honorable. He would die fighting, though he was so young! He watched as Konatai disarmed the boy. The young ninja's blade went up, gripped in both hands and flashed downward. Then there was a murmer of suprise from all who watched. The boy sidestepped to the left and ducked, Konatai's blade whistling just past. This child had somehow evaded a very skillful attack!

Manshin sidestepped the strike. Perhaps it was dumb luck, perhaps it was skill, but the boy neither knew nor cared. He was moving purely on reaction from his father’s teachings. His one thought to strike out at this man who had taken his father away. He lunged forward, but then his head exploded in a bright burst of light and pain. He did not know he was even falling until he felt the ground reached up and closed around him. He lay on his back... there was wetness on the ground. The world seemed strange; slow. He felt his consciousness slipping away.

Konatai was furious and humiliated. This fool boy had dodged his strike. Very few grown men had ever done that. As the child lunged at him stubbornly, the ninja jerked his fist across, solidly backhanding the boy and flinging him to the ground. The ninja watched as the boy rolled onto his back, eye's glassy and a trickle of blood running from a quickly swelling eye. He was lying in his father's blood. Konatai strode forward, raising his blade again to finish the impudent boy off and fulfill his contract. Before the stroke fell, a harsh voice rang out from behind, commanding him to stop.
Konatai's blade halted. He looked in rage upon Master Nakimuru; “Our orders are to kill all who carry supplies to Shou-Lung!" He shouted.
The observer stepped forward menacingly: "Do not speak to me like that, your emotions rule you!" Konatai backed away, bowing, his eyes dark with anger. The others watched silently.
"I will take this boy," mutterings of surprise and confusion ran through the gathering of ninja. "He will help me train my son."
Konatai was furious. This boy had dishonored him. He wished very much to kill him and put this shame behind him. Nakimuru was a clan master however, and he would do as he wished, being in high honor among the Yuriki-Naku. In anger, Konatai spun away, stalking toward the caravan.

Manshin heard from a great distance raised voices. A great ache pounded in his head. After a few moments, rough hands grabbed him and pulled him from the ground. He slipped once again into blackness.


He fell to the ground hard, jarring him awake. The smells of moss and soil as well as the fragrance of wild rhododendrons were strong here. There was another smell as well. Blood. The boy was damp and cold, and there was a dull ache in his head.
"We stop here for the night, no fire." The voice was harsh, speaking in hushed tones. He groaned and tried to open his eyes, only to find that the left one was swollen shut. It was dark, but there was moonlight. As his good eye adjusted to the gloom he began to see figures in the pale light. He was lying on his side in a patch of damp moss. He could hear that same harsh voice speaking to the other figures. Giving them orders. Amidst the commotion, memory came back to Manshin.
The small boy lay their weeping in the cold darkness whilst his father's killers made camp around him. Over and over again, he saw his father fall. He saw the cold laughing eyes. He no longer felt the dampness and chill of the ground, nor did he feel the stickiness on his back, where is father's blood matted his tunic.
Rough hands grabbed hold of his shoulder and jerked him upright. This was not the young one with the laughing eyes. This one was older, older than his father had been. His eyes were fierce under white brows. The demons no longer wore masks. His face was hard, as though it were carved of stone. The man took Manshin's hand and turned the palm up, then placed something round and cold into it.
"Eat." He said coldly. "Tomorrow, you walk. I will carry you no further." Then he turned to walk back to the others as Manshin looked lamely down at the lump of rice in his shaking hand.
Looking up, he watched the demon return to the others who sat in a forest clearing. The full moon was very bright now, having passed between the mountain peaks. He could see the assassins silhouetted against its glare. There were ten of them. They were speaking in low, excited tones. Some of them were laughing.
Manshin slumped back over to his side, the ball of rice rolling from his exhausted fingers. He was numb with pain, and sleep began to overtake him again. His eye closed. In the darkness, the sound of the demons laughing about their slaughter was all Manshin could hear. Again, he wept.


Manshin awakened as a foot slammed into his stomach, bending him over with a cry. "I told you to eat dog!" A strong hand grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and jerked him upright. It was the stone man again. His other hand pushed the same ball of rice, now covered in dirt into Manshin's face.
"Eat it!"
The boy took the rice quickly and bit off as much as he could, his one eye wide with fear as he chewed. The stone man released him, and leaned back on his haunches, regarding the boy sternly.
His features softened slightly for a moment, and then he spoke: "You are alive because I have use for you, understand? If you do not eat and cannot walk, you are no longer useful to me." His features hardened. "If I cannot use you, I will have Konatai finish his work, understand?" He gestured to one of the demons behind him. It was the one with the laughing eyes. He wore no mask now. His face was made of sharp angles and his lips were thin. Manshin's scowled darkly at the hated man as he went about packing his gear.
A stinging blow sent pain through his already aching head.
"Never look upon any of the Yuriki-Naku clan with anything other than respect! You are a slave boy! If you show disobedience, defiance, I will flay your skin off! Understand?" Manshin nodded quickly, his attention back on the stone man. "I am Nakimuru, your master. You will call me master. You will show nothing but respect and obedience or I will punish you harshly." Again the boy nodded.
"What is your name?"
"Manshin," he blurted his name swiftly, fearing another reprimand.
"This is not Shou. You have brown hair. You are mixed blood, yes?"
"Yes, m-my mother is Rashemi, from the West. M-my father.... My father was of the Mantis clan." At the mention of his father, Manshin felt hot tears gathering in his eyes.
"Never show me such emotion, or I will beat you! You are among the Yuriki-Naku, such weakness is not tolerated." Manshin drew his arm across his eyes, drying them.
"Finish your rice. We are leaving soon. It is yet many miles to our village, and if you do not keep up, I will beat you. Understand?" Manshin nodded again, shoving the last of the rice into his mouth. Nakimuru stood and turned back to the others. He gave a couple of sharp commands, and the rest of the demons stood, some adjusting their gear.
Manshin also rose on wobbling legs, looking over this gathering of men whom he hated. He was careful to show no emotion on his face. A few of them regarded him for a moment, and then turned. The one called Konatai who had murdered his father looked at him in obvious anger and disgust before falling in line behind the others as they began to move north.

[Manshin]

The long journey into the mountains was the first of many trials that the young Manshin would endure during his life among the Yuriki-Naku ninja clan. If it can be said that his childhood ended with the life of his father, then it could also be said that his new life began upon his first step on that journey. For though the boy had never lived an easy life, hardships such as those the Yuriki-Naku ninja were accustomed were beyond what common men endured; and the price for failure to endure was dire. These things the young boy learned quickly.


He had walked for more miles than he could guess. The days were like years in his agonized mind. It was the third day since these men had stolen his father. His legs were in a constant dull ache now and his battered feet were covered with painful blisters. Had it not been for his memory of the first day, when he had been severely beaten for his failure to keep up, he would have fallen long ago.
On and on he trudged, his bruised ribs and twisted arm keeping him on his feet until finally the sun fell and the demons halted. He again choked down the rice given to him by master Nakimuru, but soon after, collapsed onto the ground where he did not move until morning.
The assassins moved swiftly, and it was very difficult for the boy. But with his left eye again open, he was able to keep up a bit better. He received no beatings. The ninja traveled along the side of a high ravine, overlooking mist-shrouded depths. The path was narrow and slick. This was familiar ground to the demons however, and they traveled with ease. Manshin fought back his fear of slipping and continued as quickly as he could.
The rocky path dropped several hundred feet over several miles before it began to wind back up. The sun was high in the sky now, burning away some of the mist that seemed to perpetually cover these mountains. They were deep inside the mountains and Manshin could see nothing but green peaks beyond the deep ravine. Above him, the forest was thick with bamboo and other leafy foliage, and far below, a muddy river of brown water ran strong through the rocky valley.
After climbing for a mile or so, the path came to an end at a hanging bridge. The ravine was narrow here, perhaps seventy feet across at the most. Several of the demons started across as Manshin stood, his breath coming short as he stared with wide eyes at the thin, frail looking bridge. Nakimuru shoved him from behind onto the rope bridge. He stumbled forward, but did not fall. Gritting his teeth, the boy trudged on, the slick boards seeming fragile beneath his aching feet.
Voices ahead caught his ear. Looking up, Manshin saw the demon in the front speaking into a bush on the side of the path. The line continued until Manshin passed the spot where the demon has spoken. At first he saw nothing but a leafy bush, then there were eyes staring back at him. His breath caught in surprise, but Nakimuru again shoved him roughly forward.
“Keep going.”
The path continued upward, but now they were walking away from the ravine. Before he knew it, Manshin stood before a tall wooden gate. Beyond was the village of the Yuriki-Naku.


The Yuriki-Naku were few, and they lived simply, dwelling within in plain houses with tall roofs amongst the large clusters of bamboo. Many of these buildings were set against a steep rock wall that rose for a thousand feet, disappearing into the mist. Stairs wound up into a gap in that rock; what was beyond there, Manshin could only guess.
All of the demons went separate ways; some casting backward glances at the boy, others ignoring him. As Nakimuru led Manshin along a stone path through the center of the small village, some of the inhabitants looked upon him with unfriendly eyes. The small boy suddenly felt deeply and profoundly alone. He put his head down, eyes on the ground and walked as Nakimuru directed him. They followed a wide path, and then turned east up a narrow winding trail of stones toward the far end of the village. After passing a bamboo thicket, they came to a small house.
“This is my house,” said Nakimuru. “You will stay in there,” the master pointed to a small shed on the side of the house. “You are deep in the mountains, so if you are foolish enough to run, you will become lost and die,” then he added, “And if you do not die in the forest, you will wish you had when I find you.”
Manshin nodded slowly.
“Go and rest. I will bring you blankets and rice in a moment,” then, almost as an after thought, he added, “I wish you to have your strength tomorrow.’


The boy slid the small shed door open. It smelled musty inside. There were some tools and a few other odds and ends within, but little else. He entered the shed and slid the door shut behind him. It was dark inside other than the pale lines of sunlight that poured through the slats in the door. The boy sank to the floor, feeling cool air coming up from between the floorboards. His feet ached, and his head burned, but he was glad to be alone.
For some time, Manshin sat numbly on the floor in the small shed, watching the fragmented light slowly move along his arm. He was trying so hard to keep his thoughts blank, but sadly, such a thing was just not possible for the small boy. Soon he began to watch his father die again. Over and over the terrible vision came to him. He buried his face into his dirty hands. Soon sobs began to wrack his small body as he cried.


Nakimuru stood outside the small shed for a long time as the boy within wept. The old man felt pity for him, but he knew pity would not help the boy to survive. He wondered again why he had saved the child. It had been very foolish. Though it was true that having a boy his son’s age would be very helpful for training, Nakimuru knew inside that he had done this rash thing out of weakness. A half-blood outlander was a poor substitute for his lost wife and his first son.
The clan would be watching. Surely Konatai would have informed Sujuke of what had happened by now. The Grandmaster would be most unhappy with Nakimuru’s choice, and doubtlessly Konatai would have already begun to push for his father’s approval to kill the boy.
The old master smiled briefly at the thought of Konatai’s humiliation. How it must shame the arrogant ninja to have been humiliated by a small child. He was not worried however. He held great honor among his people. Once, he had been among the most skillful of the Yuriki-Naku assassins. Long had he held the rank of Master. Even now, at almost sixty years of age, he could easily beat all but a handful of the clan ninja.
His decision would not be liked, but none would challenge his honor; unless of course, it was discovered that he had saved this boy’s life for something as weak as pity. Standing out here holding blankets and hot water while the boy inside wept for his lost life was not going to fool anyone for long. Without further hesitation, Nakimuru slid the door open.
Manshin quickly dried his red and swollen eyes with a dirty sleeve, and looked up at Master Nakimuru. Once again the stone man, Nakimuru dropped the blankets onto the floorboards, and set a basin of steaming water down. Next to it he placed several rags and a simple set of white robes.
“Clean yourself, and put those on. Do not leave this shed, understand?”
“Yes master,” said the boy in a broken voice. Manshin was trying to look emotionless, but he could not hide the fear and pain behind his red-rimmed eyes. Nakimuru studied him for a moment, and then with a grunt, he turned and walked out, shutting the door again.


Later that evening, as the light began to grow pale in the small shed, Manshin awoke from a dream. It had been a dream of his mother and father. His three sisters had been there as well. Manshin’s small heart ached to be back inside the vision.
Looking around the bleak little shed, it was at first difficult for him to believe that he was truly here. That he was not going home. He hadn’t thought of his mother since the demons had taken his father. But now, he saw her clearly in his thoughts, her tanned skin, her long auburn hair.
How long would she and his sisters wait for their father and son who would never come home again? Such pain they would feel as the days became months, and then months faded into years, and still their loved ones did not return.

[Manshin]

The next morning, Manshin awoke before the sun, pulled from an uneasy sleep by a burning thirst and chilling cold. He rubbed the grit from his eyes and looked out toward the eastern horizon. Though still dark, the sky was beginning already to lighten. Wincing at the pain in his left shoulder, he pulled his dirty cloak off and stood up, shaking out the stiffness in his legs and the sand in his tattered cloak.
The cut Juko had given him throbbed with pain, and it stunk. He knew that by now, it was badly infected. Shaking it off, as he had the stiffness in his legs, Manshin bent over to his sac and groped around for his water skin. It weighed almost nothing. With a sigh, he lifted it gingerly to his parched lips. It took a moment before what sad little was left ran into his mouth.
He drained the last few drops, and then it was gone. Looking forlornly at the empty bladder, Manshin could not help but smile at the irony of his thoughts. He had been thinking that in all of his life, he had never truly realized how precious water really was. Then it occurred to him that probably every man who had ever walked through a desert had thought the same thing.
Absently, he stowed the empty skin back in his pack, and strapped on his kote. He could have left them, but he had come this far, and if he was going to die of thirst in a desert, then he might as well die with all of his possessions.
Manshin threw his shawl around his shoulders, ignoring the sting where the dirty cloth brushed his wound, and then he shouldered Korfuji and set out.
He walked for many hours, through the chill of dawn and into the fires of the burning sands of midday. It did not take long until his thirst made him delirious, until his breath came to him in wheezing gasps. He had long ago begun to ignore the tirade of mirages his fevered mind was setting before him. As his faltering steps brought him to the top of yet another dune, he found that it, like all the others he had crested since the burning sun rose, overlooked a lake of cool, clear water. Ignoring the painful mirage, he looked out across the desert, far into the west. Nothing. Everlasting nothing.
He knew that his end was near; his legs were getting pitifully weak. It seemed so pointless to keep walking when he could plainly see that there was nothing for many miles. But, such was his fate.
Anyway, it seemed somehow that his death would be better if he died heading west until his strength failed. Soto had fought to the last, so why should Manshin get off easily? He gave the mirage of beautiful water one final, longing look; than continued on.
He stopped short.
With confusion knotting his brow, Manshin looked again at the mirage below. Water he had seen many times today, but his mind must truly have been slipping, for he did not recall seeing boats drifting through his mirages before.
He strained his eyes against the bright sands, gazing at the small figment floating across the imaginary water. It was a strange looking vessel, with a small roof, almost like a house. A tiny man in a wide, cone shaped hat sat at the prow. A large brown fish was swimming just ahead. The little boat stopped after a few moments near the base of a dune, and the little man leapt out into the water.
Like a firecracker bursting in his head, Manshin came out of his stupor!
He tried to cry out, but all that came from his torn throat was a hoarse rasp. Stumbling with all the speed his weary legs could muster, the easterner made for the cart, waving his arms! He didn’t care if this small man was the most horrible of all the desert spirits come to flay him alive, so long as he had would give him a sip of water first.


The little gnome, Sabunock wiped his nose on the sleeve of his colorful robe, and tried again to study the diagram. His bone skinny arms (which had earned him the name “Sticks” from his friends… back when he had friends.) turning the parchment this way and that, trying get a better mental image of the little scarab beetle pictured there. Glass jingled and cupboards rattled as his strange little cart made its slow steady way across the desert.
For three days he had been searching for this beetle; having read that it was native to the region. So far he had seen only five living creatures, and of those… only two had bothered to be beetles. Of those two, neither proved to resemble the elusive Red Sand Beetle. He was getting hot and cranky, and was not looking forward to another night out on the freezing cold dunes.
Setting the parchment inside his alchemical recipe book, Sticks closed and sealed the leather cover, and tossed the book back into his laboratory. Muttering grumpily, he began to sweep the sand from his cushions. Just then, the cart hit a large stone and bounced, sending him headfirst into the small overhanging roof and flattening his wide straw hat.
“Stupid Mule! This my best hat! Why don’t you watch where you going!”
The stunted runt mule, appropriately named, Mule, cast him a baleful glance, accompanied with a disgruntled snort. The run-down looking beast was certainly long passed it’s prime and in a foul mood, having spent all morning trudging through hot dry sand. Being yelled at was apparently the final straw. The old mule stopped short, with no intention of moving until he had heard a formal apology from the hot-tempered gnome, and a good long drink of water.
Popping his hat back into its proper cone-shape, Sticks gave the mule a baleful glare, and then plopped it back onto his balding head. Curiosity prompted him to forgive the mule as he thought about the stone they had just run over. Stones that large amongst the dunes were rare, and critters often times used them for shelter from the sun.
Hopping out of the little cart, he landed in the hot sand, sending up a swirl of dust. Sticks tried to keep as little sand as possible from getting onto his colorful shoes, but it was no use. With a sigh, he high-stepped around to investigate the stone. The inquisitive gnome noted it’s reddish hue… that it had been eroded into a round oblong shape, and that it was completely devoid of any readily accessible species of Red Sand Beetle.
With a long-suffering sigh, the gnome stood up and looked around the dunes hopelessly. It seemed he would never find his beetle, and would have to pay the market place’s ridiculous price in order to be able to finish his new potion; assuming he could even buy one of these creatures without dealing with the gods-be-damned Tuigan barbarians. How was an alchemist supposed to earn gold if the ingredients demanded a higher price than the potions?
He was just about to head back to his wagon when the sound of sliding sand caught his attention. Whirling around, Sticks jumped in surprise and fear. Barreling down the Dune toward him was a large and ragged looking human. His eyes were round, as if he were insane, and he was flapping his arms. In his left hand, he held aloft a long curved weapon wrapped in cloth, and his teeth were bared.
Quickly reaching into one of his many pouches, Sticks pinched bits of colored sand and began to rapidly mutter strange words.


Manshin was nearly to the strange gnome, he gritted his teeth as he pushed his tired muscles further than they wished to go. As he got nearer, the surprised looking gnome reached into his robes and began muttering something. The thought of water drove all sense from Manshin. His grimace was replaced by a large toothy grin at the thought that perhaps he was not going to die of thirst out here in the desert after all! The smile was quickly replaced by utter shock and surprise as the gnome stretched out his hand and released a fabulous burst of brightly colored light that struck the easterner full in the face!
Manshin’s legs came out from under him, and dumped him on his back in the burning sand. He was completely blinded, and it felt as though thunder had just exploded in his head. Scrambling back to his feet, he staggered back and forth, trying to get a hold of something to orient himself. All the while mouthing over and over, “water!”
Sticks watched the stumbling man for a moment before letting his mind relax; releasing the incantation he had been about to cast. Now that the surprise had worn off, it was clear to the frowning gnome that this stranger was not a bandit. In fact, he was only an hour or two away from being another sad pile of bones to be swallowed somewhere in this hell-hole. As the Easterner fell to his knees, wiping his red eyes and gasping, Sticks sighed.
“Are you stupid or something!?” The gnomes voice was thickly accented, and his common was halting. “What kind of idiot wander desert with no water?”
Forcing himself to relax and inwardly kicking himself for his foolishness, Manshin turned toward the sound of the irate gnome. With considerable effort, he managed to force the word “lost” through his cracked and dried lips.
“That pretty obvious,” said Sticks sarcastically. “What next? Thirsty?” The colorful gnome chuckled quietly at his own humor and turned toward his strange wagon, high stepping through the deep sand.
“You a long way from home easterner… What you doing out here in desert? You a bandit or some-ting?” Judging from the shape of the cloth wrapped weapon the man carried, Sticks doubted that very much. Bandits did not carry the sort of weapon Sticks suspected to be hidden beneath those wrappings, nor did they keep their weapons protected in cloth when attacking lone alchemists, so he was not overly concerned when the man didn’t answer. The alchemist reached into his small wagon and found his water skin. Over his shoulder, Manshin was sitting on his haunches trying to focus his bleary eyes on the gnome.
“Don’t worry easterner, you see fine soon. That spell wear off.” Said Sticks as he yanked the heavy water bladder down and trudged through the sand toward Manshin.
“You keep pretty sword in sheath… I got plenty of magic that don’t wear off!”
The easterner’s vision had cleared up somewhat. The gnome was still a blue and yellow blur, but he could see enough to catch the water bladder tossed his way. To his credit he even managed to squawk a, “thank you” to the gnome before untying the nozzle with shaking hands and quickly lifting it to his lips.
The water may have been warm and musty, but to one who has never truly been thirsty, it is difficult to appreciate how wonderful it tasted to Manshin. He drank deeply, feeling pain at first as the water ran down his harsh, dry throat.
Sticks waited impatiently as the man drank and drank.
“Hey! Save some for me, eh? You drink too much to fast, you going to get sick!”
He did not stop immediately, but fearing the gnome would cast another spell upon him, Manshin decided it would be wise to stop drinking. He lowered the bladder with a contented sigh. Tying the skin closed again, Manshin handed it back to Sticks.
“Domo.” He said, nodding his head in thanks.
“You want to speak? Speak western tongue.” Said sticks, testing the weight of the significantly lighter water bladder with a frown.
Manshin regarded the gnome curiously. “I apologize, I thought you were from Kara-Tur because of your accent.”
“I speak Shou, but only when in Kara-Tur. And if you going to apologize, do it to the west side of world. You not in east anymore. It rude to speak Shou tongue here.”
Manshin, somewhat confused by the reprimand, nodded anyway, finding the belligerent gnomes sudden concern for politeness surprising.
Unfazed by Manshin’s confused look, the gnome went on. “Ok, so what you got to trade?”
“Eh... what?” Manshin was unsure how to respond to the strange question. Apparently, however, the gnome was quite serious. Tossing the water skin back into the bizarre wagon, he turned to regard Manshin, who was still sitting in the sand.
“Maybe you got sand in your ears?” Replied Sticks as he tried in vane to shake more sand from his bright yellow shoes. “I gave you water… too much water…” he grumbled. “So, what you got in return?”
Looking down at his small, empty pack and ragged clothes, Manshin had no idea what the colorful gnome was expecting to hear. Still, despite being exhausted and in considerable pain, the easterner was too happy to have tasted water to begrudge whichever payment the little man would demand.
There was a strange look upon the gnome’s small, wise looking face. It was not entirely unfriendly, but the deep lines etched into his nut-brown skin, made even deeper in the shadow of his wide pointed hat; made him difficult to read. Anyway, Manshin was not particularly good at reading others, so he decided to just be polite.
“Of course, forgive me, I owe you much gnome, and…”
“Sticks”
“Huh?”
“Sticks; that my name. You call me Sticks. Gnome not polite.” He said, “…and, yes, you do owe me much I tink. Maybe in two hours, you be dead if not for me, eh? I think you should give me someting in return.”
He stepped closer to Manshin and began to run his sharp eyes over the easterner appraisingly, who noted how they came to rest upon Korfuji’s cloth-wrapped hilt. The easterner instinctively pulled the weapon close and frowned darkly. Stick’s eyes moved on, obviously deciding the weapon was too valuable for the man to part with willingly. Interesting. At last, his eyes came to rest on Manshin’s small pack, lying in the sand.
The gnome seemed to be thinking for a moment, then looked back to Manshin, and gesturing towards Korfuji. “I bet that a fancy sword you carry easterner, I tink that look like a Samurai weapon, but I never seen Samurai with strange tattoos on bald head before. You also seem to have light pack for someone who wish to travel across Great Waste.” Now he gestured at Manshin’s torn shoulder, and his wise little face became thoughtful. “That cut ugly. Where you get such a cut?” Not bothering to let the easterner answer, Sticks went on: “Maybe you got valuable jewels in that pack? Maybe you a thief that got caught stealing jewels and Samurai swords? Now you trying to escape in desert... eh?”
Now it was Manshin who was beginning to feel irritation setting in. Happy as he was for the water, he had no intention of being interrogated and insulted by this tiny wu-jen.
“Hey! Im not a thief. My name is Manshin, not easterner. As for why I am in the desert, that’s not your concern.” He replied, somewhat crossly. “If you wish for me to pay you for your water, than you are free to take your pick of my belongings.” Manshin slipped the string on his pack and poured out its meager contents: A rolled up travel stained blanket, an empty water skin, a cloth sac, and a few odds and ends were all that he carried.
Grabbing a small polished square of metal from the smattering of equipment, he held it out to the frowning gnome, who snorted. “As you can see, I have no stolen jewelry here… perhaps this mirror will make you feel better?
“Your sac.” Said Sticks, gesturing toward the sand where Manshin had poured out his backpack. “It moving”
“Huh?” Manshin followed Stick’s gaze to his empty food sac and then remembered the beetles inside. Apparently they had also survived. Undoing the string, he dumped them out onto the sand.
The gnome’s almond-shaped eyes became saucer-like.
“Un-gah!” The gnome scrambled forward, kicking sand all over Manshin who recoiled from the sudden flurry of motion. The little man bent over, quickly picking up the two beetles and stuffed them back into the brown sac.
“Where you find these!?” He asked in excited tones, holding up the sac like a prize. “I been searching all over damned desert for them!”
Manshin’s face was the picture of confusion. “You are in the desert seeking insects?”
With a nonchalant grunt, the grinning gnome jabbed a thumb back toward the large wooden sign on the side of his cart. On it, written both in the common tongues of the east and west was:

“Stick’s and his Wondrous Elixirs and Alchemical Concoctions.”

“Ahhh.” Said Manshin in sudden understanding. The drinking of mashed beetles seemed unpleasant, but Manshin did not press the subject.
“This pays for the water you gave me, yes?” said Manshin, as he stuffed his belongings back into his pack.
“Yes. I think we even now.” In fact, you save me time, so I let you follow me to town too.”
Manshin, rising slowly from the ground, wiped the sand from Korfuji’s cloth wrappings and looked down at the gnome with interest. He nodded to the gnome in thanks, though he had intended to follow him back to the road anyway.
Sticks went on; “You probably not make it far with arm like that though.” The alchemist furrowed his wrinkled brow as he regarded Manshin’s wounded shoulder. The wound had taken on a greenish hue and smelled strongly of infection. The easterner knew it would not be long before he would become ill.
“You going to have to keep up, so, I give you something for that.” With that, Sticks turned back to his wagon, beaming down at the insects skittering around inside the easterner’s food sack as he high-stepped through the deep sand.
“I think you going to owe me again though. Medicine I got do not come cheap,” said the gnome matter-of-factly. Opening up a wooden compartment, he placed the beetles somewhere inside the cluttered little cart, and then began digging around. Half buried in the cart, Sticks went through his many belongings and finally withdrew a small brown glass jar with a wide stopper. Turning, he threw the little container to Manshin.
“Put that on stinky cut,” said the alchemist, then quickly added; “Not too much! That stuff cost a fortune!”
Manshin regarded the dark glass curiously, wondering if perhaps it was magical. Twisting off the lid, his nostrils were filled with an acrid metallic aroma. The balm inside was waxy in appearance, and had a silvery glint. Any reservations were lost however as the odor of his infected wound drifted on the wind. With a shrug, Manshin scooped some out and slathered it on his aching shoulder.
When he looked up, he saw the gnome watering his sad looking mule, which brayed and nipped at him whenever he got too close. The easterner sealed the lid onto the dark glass jar again and looked back out into the dunes.
His legs were still very tired, but just as the gnomes water had given him life, the knowledge that he was no longer lost and doomed to die out here had given him focus and vigor. Other than the sound of mule and master quarreling, the dunes were very peaceful. Manshin took a deep breath, listening to the sound of the breeze as it blew small swirls of dust in the sand.
Never would he have imagined that he would owe his life to this strange little creature that was busy swatting at a nipping mule with one hand, while trying to pour water into a bucket with the other. Indeed… strange were the fortunes if a crazed hermit and two red beetles could pull a man from the edge of death.