Hey guys! I am a long-time player here, and I've started to write some EfU fanfiction. This is an excerpt from a short story about our very own Sheriff Azzam. Please leave constructive criticism!
He glared at the zurkhwood sheets lying upon his desk. Trivial numbers and the written whines of his incompetent privates glared back at him; mocking his proud Bedine spirit. There was a time, the lean yet hulkish man thought, when he lived by the blade and his desert wits—those were good times; real times. Now, his weapon of choice was a feathered pen, and his wits served only to spar with fat politicians.
With an enraged grunt, he swiped the zurkhwood papers from his desk, spitting bitterly at them on the floor. There was a silence, then—one with all the poignancy of a shadowed desert sun. He sighed in quiet relief when a knock resounded upon his door.
“In.” The Bedine liked to keep his subordinates on edge, always in fear of their commander. He cared little for friends—friends wasted away under the searing rays of At’ar, leaving you all alone in the cruel desert winds. No, he would have no more friends.
The brawny, well-muscled figure of Sergeant Timmons glided in, smooth and confident. The Bedine glanced up, sharing a pregnant gaze with the decorated officer.
“Sheriff. I wanted to run these latest recruitment reports by yo-“
“Leave them.”
Timmons slowly approached the desk, gingerly avoiding the earlier spilled stack of reports. The Bedine could smell him, then—a musk of sweat and steel; a musk he knew well. He set the papers down, but did not turn to exit. His deep amber eyes pierced into the Sheriff, unsaid words ripe upon his tongue.
“You may leave, Sergeant.”
“Azerus…”
“LEAVE ME, Sergeant!”
Timmons’ large hand suddenly fell upon the Sheriff’s shoulder, clutching hard. Though famed for his barbarous temper, the Bedine did not resist. His eyes met those of the burly sergeant, and he swam in their ample amber pools. Like the desert asp, they drew him in before striking their killing blow.
Timmons drew away suddenly, looking about with a newly-procured awkwardness. The Bedine stared daggers into his desk.
“Leonard, I…”
“No, don’t. Don’t say it.”
“You must understand, Leonard. It must stay hidden; I have the respect of my MEN to think about! Thei-“
“You’re ashamed, Azerus? You’re ashamed of this?”
With a fiery scream, the Bedine slammed his meaty fist upon the desk, cracking it. Sergeant Timmons gazed absently to the door.
“I can’t do this, Azerus. Not anymore.”
“Leonard, please. I didn’t-“
“You didn’t mean it, Azerus? No, I suppose you never do. Goodbye, Sheriff.”
The Bedine was once more drawn to his broken desk, unable to look at the departing form of Timmons. No, he would have no more friends—he would wander the cruel desert of his heart alone.