City in the Dust

Origin Story

Gunga Mai

Drudgery. One step after another. My world, my vision, my consciousness barely extends beyond myself. I am locked in an endless rhythm of step after step, I stare at the dusty ground in front of me as one sandaled foot after the other enters my line of site only to retract again like a wave crashing on the shore and hastily retreating. My head full of cobwebs, I can’t maintain a single coherent thought. Grasping at the thoughts, memories, and reveries that enter my consciousness but then recede as quickly as that. Desperate to hold them. Desperate to maintain them. Whispers, faces, smells, and sounds from another lifetime. And just like that they vanish. I let out a howl of frustration. Or I think it was my voice. Who am I? What am I doing here? Walking? I’ve no concept of time. I’ve no concept of anything at all other than the rhythm of one blurry sandaled foot after another. The howl. There it is again. A cry … an anguished and desperate cry for something. Mai. Gunga Mai. Gunga Mai? There is something so familiar about that sound … that phrase. And why or rather how can I remember anything other than the endless steps and the dust? Gunga Mai I shout. That’s it. That is my name. Gunga Mai.

Slowly my vision clears and I am able to hold onto a thought. I look up; something I haven’t done for a very long time it seems. I see a city wall or gate or something. Have the Gods cursed me? Where am I? I have an unslakeable thirst. It seems consciousness has its price. “Water!” I yell as I collapse in front of the gate. I see a face. An angry face. Or is that concern? I know not which. Rough hands pick me up and load me onto a cart and I can barely make out buildings as they pass slowly by. A city of dust. A city in the dust. And then blackness.

Character crunch: Gunga Mai is a 4th level eldritch knight. He is an unremarkable height of 5’8” and weighs 175 pounds; with brown eyes and dark brown hair when his head is not completely shaved bald. He hails from the horse people of the grasslands. A nomadic people who live in Yurts off the land. They breed and trade horses of the best variety. I visualize him to be Mongolian so to speak. He has the military discipline of a soldier and is quite quiet and soft spoken.

He has wandered in the wastes for many weeks in a stupor. He is almost catatonic until he awakens. He has done something wrong; something very wrong. It is slowly coming back to him. He has murdered someone, someone prominent, and was exiled out into the wastelands to wander and die. Forsaken, cold, thirsty and alone he has stumbled though the dust.

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