This was a series originally written for my Long-Running TTRPG Campaign. The Datura are a genderless fox-people who live a communal life in the sands, each defined by their role in society. Youths are raised in creches, and told stories to help them learn more about their world. This is one such story meant to illustrate the purpose of the different roles, as well as the ritual of finding ones name.
VI. By Virtue of their Birth
You're going to have to fight, Child.
With their legs finding the strength to walk, the young Datura carried their feet across the desert, step by step, into their naming day.
The young Datura walked up a fairly nondescript dune, each foot pushing against the sand in a fight against the fall backwards down the slope. Just as they met the peak, before their foot could take a single step downwards, they felt a stern, stiff voice against their ears.
“Go no further, Young one.” The voice was not cruel or harsh, though it also left no room for personal interpretation. “These sands are not for you to explore, and you’ll find none other like yourself beyond these sands.”
The young Datura would have been startled, if not for the certainty in the larger Datura’s voice. The young one didn’t see them at first, so calm and sunken-in the down-slope of the dune were they. The sand nearly reached up to their chest, and their legs would be completely submerged if they were not seated in just a particular kind of perch.
The older voice continued. “Go any further, and I can not guarantee your safety, so I will stop you and return you to your creche.” The word, creche, had an odd pronunciation to it, as if their use of the word meant more than the younger Datura could parse.
Still, the years were not long on the Young one, and one glance at the empty horizon beyond the dune was enough to confuse.
“I will not go further, but…” another glance at the empty sands. “...I do not know what I have to fear?”
“Beasts.” The voice responded, curtly.
The young one scanned the horizon. “I do not see any Beasts.”
A short chuckle came from the sand. “No.” Their body shifted, and the older Datura began to rise, sand listing off like it had been there for eons. Each grain of sand flowed down their broad chest, in and through the network of scars on their back, and off the edge of their shoulders, flowing like a grand cape. They motioned with the remains of their left arm. “You do not.”
Immediately, the young Datura felt a jolt to their feet. How many times had they heard stories of the Monsoon, of great waters that come and sweep and clear? The Nursetrees at the creche do not tend to clarify their stories, and it is left up to the listener to determine whether it refers to the great flood of water or the mythical deeds of the warrior-Datura, the Monsoon. Some of their crechemates don’t believe there is a difference - but the Monsoon standing in front of them seemed terribly dry. Still, as far as first impressions go, this was among the more imposing.
“I am...terribly sorry, Monsoon.” the young Datura looked away. “I did not mean to disturb your watch.”
“Nonsense, little one.” A wide grin came over the Monsoon. “My watch comes in many forms. Besides, I have slain beasts that wore the face of a Datura - how do I know you are not here to encroach on our territories?” The hair on the Monsoon’s neck turned up, and for a split second, the young Datura felt mortal fear through their bones. However, the Monsoon’s pose and ears had shifted ever slightly, in a way that made it clear that this was play. The tension breaking, the little one exhaled and was quick to return the stance in kind.
“Yes, honorable Monsoon! I am a terrible…” they glanced around at the empty dunes. “...sand-beast, posing as just a young Datura, seeking to answer the riddle given to me by my elders!”
“Ah, yes. Sand-beasts.” The Monsoon shifted his stance again, still in play, just a few feet to the left. “Tell me, sand-beast: Must I end you with…” their eyes dropped to the dune briefly, their thought process distracted. “...violence…” they shifted again, one length to the left, “...or will answering your riddle be enough to protect these lands?”
The young Datura giggled at the Monsoon’s antics. They lifted a leg to march towards the Monsoon, but found a quick bark in response.
“DO NOT…” The command came as a bark, then a whisper. “...come closer to me, sand-beast. Do not move a muscle.” The grin returned, though weaker. “Tell me of your riddle, so that I might chase you off of these Datura lands and away from my vulnerable young!”
Though startled, the young Datura stayed put.
“My elders have asked me where Sun and Moon go when they are not in the sky!” The young Datura did their best impression of how a sand-beast might talk, were they able to speak in the Datura’s tongue, or for that matter, were they to exist at all.
“Ah, little one. The Monsoon knows the answer to this all too well, for we act out the battle of Sun and Moon every day.” The Monsoon leaned low, their ears shifting every slightly away from play. “Things must exist, and they must exist upon the land, little one. All things are given a right to exist by virtue of their birth, but these rights must be exercised and defended, which it is our right to do. “ The Monsoon’s eyes began to dart, their explanation more hurried. “ So too, do the Sun and Moon war across the sky. The Day and Night both provide, little Datura, but they must fight for the right to exist upon their land, the sky.”
The young Datura looked up at the brilliant orb in the sky, when the Monsoon’s voice returned, gravely as when they first met.
“I’ve answered your Riddle, Sand-beast. Return down the slope at once.”
The light and smile fading from their youthful eyes, the young Datura was confused but reverent. Embarrassed, but respectful. Their play was over, and it was time for them to march backward.
“Thank you, Mon-.”
“At once, child.”
There was no further response, only the monsoon squatting towards the dune, eyes focused on the sand. Awkwardly, they turned to slide down the dune, and began to wonder what it was they had done to upset them.
It was then they heard it: the sound of squealing, of animal noises. Struggle. They heard the struggle of a beast and the breaking of its spirit. They heard the death-wail of a creature and heard the grunt of the body that killed it. And they heard a frame, sinking again into the sand, wet with sinew and blood.
With each foot pressing against the sand, the Young Datura continued on with their labors, careful to mind their step.
Wherever they might go next, it is only closer to themselves.