In a way, Tarrin almost wanted a sandstorm to come in. At least inside the howling winds there would be shade. He shaded his eyes with a paw and looked at a distant rock spire, one of the large ones. That was his goal, to reach that spire by sunset. There was a smaller one about three longspans ahead, and that was where he intended to find some shade and rest through the hottest part of the day.
There was some kind of dark disturbance on the horizon. Tarrin watched as it seemed to take form, to expand and grow, and he realized that it was another sandstorm. He focused on it, watched it as it grew larger and larger, and in growing horror he realized that it was getting larger because it was moving towards him, and moving faster than anything he'd ever seen move!
"Sarraya, there's a storm coming in, and it's moving fast!" he said, jumping up and sprinting. Three longspans. For him, that was only ten minutes, a distance he could cover quickly and without worry. But the sand grabbed at his feet, the heat drained his strength. Even as he started to run, he began to doubt whether they were going to make it.
"Good gods!" Sarraya said in a strangled tone as she came around and looked out of the front of the hood. "Tarrin, run! If that hits us, it'll pick us up, and you won't survive the landing!"
"I'm running!" he snapped in reply, charging ahead in complete desperation. Never had he seen anything move so fast! It had to be unnatural! In seconds, the edges of the storm were defined. It was small, but it moved with incredible speed, and its broiling center churned with blowing sand and dust. It was a dark cloud, a cloud of death, which would kill anything unfortunate enough to wander into its path.
Step by step, Tarrin closed on the storm, trying to beat it to the rock spire between them. Step by step, the storm loomed larger and larger, swallowing up the horizon, coming to dominate the region before him. He could see the bulging clouds of sand making it up, see the edge of the powerful wind as it picked up everything in its path. What ferocity! And what speed! It moved faster than the fastest horse, carried along by its own winds, racing across the desert like some dark phantom.
They weren't going to make it! He was barely halfway there, and the storm was directly before him, so close that the first stirrings of wind began to tug at his cloak. In immediate terror, he realized that he had moments-seconds-before it hit them. He had to think fast! He skidded to a stop on a flat rock buried in the sand, its surface worn smooth by the scouring winds.
"No!" Tarrin said in a growling tone. "I didn't come this far to get killed in a storm! NO!!!!!!!!!" he shouted at the storm, as his eyes flared with an incandescent light. The power of the Weave rushed into him before he even realized what he was doing, so quickly that Sarraya hastily tried to control it. But as quickly as he touched the Weave, the storm bore down on him like it was a thing alive, leaving him the shortest moment to brace for its impact. He wasn't ready! He didn't have enough magic built up to do anything strong enough to counter the power of the sandstorm! He couldn't draw enough to control safely that would counter the power of the wind!
In desperation, Tarrin wove a weave of Earth, and caused his feet to sink into the stone beneath them. Then he crossed his arms before his face and braced himself.
It was like being dragged through a briar patch by ten racing horses. The wind struck him with enough force to knock the air from his lungs, and carried on it was the merciless scouring sand. The sand and dust tore into him, tore his clothing, stripped the fur and skin from him, made a whining sound as it assaulted the nicked, pitted steel of his manacles. Hot, slashing sand ripped into his face, and the force of the wind stressed the bones in his legs, threatening to break them. Tarrin leaned into the wind, using his inhuman strength to resist its power, bent his knees to take the stress off his shins. Sand invaded his mouth, drove into his ears, even ripped the tip of his left ear off. The cloak around his neck shredded instantly from the immense power of the wind, nearly broke his neck as it was pulled by the wind.
He only barely heard Sarraya's frightened scream as the clasp of the cloak broke, the laces were ripped apart, and the cloak was ripped from his back.
"Sarraya!" he gasped. She had been inside the hood, and he could hear her cry fade into the howling of the wind as she was carried away from him. Sand filled his mouth, but the sudden fear for Sarraya, the instant horror that she might be dead caused him to lose his fear, lose his inhibitions. Tarrin released all constraints and opened himself completely to the Weave, and allowed it to flow into him, through him. The Weave was weak where he was, but he could still draw in enough to feel it racing through him, scouring the fatigue and aching within as the sand scoured away skin, hair, and fur without. Tarrin felt the Weave fill him, infuse him, quickly go past the point where sweetness became pain, and warmth became burning heat. The warning from the Goddess remained in the back of his mind, caused him to attempt to clamp down on the power rushing into him, but again he found that he could not. The only way to free himself from the Weave would be to use the power within, the cut himself off before it had a chance to recharge. The Weave was thin here, he'd have a very good chance of doing it without causing himself any permanent injury.
He had to use it now, before it built past his ability to control. It wasn't enough power to disrupt the storm, but that wasn't his intent. Weaving together a spell of Air and Divine power, Tarrin released it and caused a wedge of pure Air to form before him, deflecting the wind from him enough to where it did not threaten to tear him apart. Then he sent a tendril of Air behind, a spell of searching to look for Sarraya. She was a Faerie and a Druid. She could fly, and she had magic to protect herself from the wind. He had no doubt that she would survive, but she may be injured by flying debris, and he wouldn't allow that. He found her quickly, out of the hood, being carried along by the powerful wind as it ripped her dress from her body and stripped blue skin from her body. He reached out with his tendril of Air and grabbed her, surrounded her with a barrier of protection from the wind, and then started carrying her back to him. The wind pushed against him, tried to rip her from his magical grasp, but he would not yield. It was so strong that he stopped concentrating on the wedge of Air protecting him from the force of the storm, diverted that energy into keeping his grip on the Faerie and keeping the killing winds away from her. When he let the wedge dissolve, a furious blast of wind hit him in the face, tore off the rest of his left ear, blinded his left eye, but he ignored the damage, ignored the pain, concentrating solely and completely on his weaving. Sarraya meant more to him than his own safety. He inexorably pulled her back towards him, resisting the power of the wind, battling the power of the storm over the little Faerie.
With bloody paws, Tarrin clasped them around Sarraya's quivering, naked body. The wind had done its damage to her as well as him. He cradled her like a baby, cradled her to his chest and hunkered down, then wove a weave of Air, a Ward to keep out the sand and the wind. He laid it down around him, and when it took effect, the howling of the wind became a whisper, and the dusty air was unnaturally still.
"Tarrin!" Sarraya suddenly cried as he opened his paws. She began to cry, putting her bloody hands over her face and weeping into them. She was shivering with fear, as any normal person would be after looking death so closely in the face.
Tarrin was drained, weary. He found cutting himself off from the Weave to be relatively easy, but the pain of the backlash felt as if he'd been filled to the brim with magic, rather than nearly completely drained. The Ward itself shuddered from the magical effect of the backlash, a displacement of the air around him that caused what little remaining clothing on him to blow away from him. He didn't have much left. The pack was still intact, and its precious contents were safely on his back. But all of the shirt he had on that wasn't under the pack was now gone. His trousers had survived, but only just. The pant legs were all but gone, leaving nothing but the leather from the mid-thigh up. All of the fur on him that had been directly facing the wind was gone, and alot of his skin was stripped raw. Much of the hair on his head had been plucked from its roots, but the itching he felt up there, and all over him, told him that already his body was beginning to restore itself. Within an hour, he'd look as if he'd never been in the storm.