The old man approached with the cautious, deliberate steps of someone who had survived by never taking anything for granted.
His eyes, the color of faded denim, were sharp and appraising, moving from X's tattered clothes to the scrapes and bruises, and finally to the massive, dead scorpion.
He nudged the creature's carapace with the toe of his worn leather boot, a flicker of something, it is respect, perhaps, or just professional curiosity in his gaze.
"A Ripper," he grunted, the name itself sounding sharp and dangerous. "Haven't seen one this big in years. The blight's getting stronger." He looked back at X, who was still on the ground, the adrenaline beginning to fade, replaced by a bone deep weariness and the returning agony of thirst. "I asked you a question."
X tried to answer, but the only sound that came out was a dry, rasping croak. X's throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper.
X pushed himself into a sitting position, the world tilting precariously. The old man watched, his expression unreadable, a mixture of suspicion and a grudging sort of pity.
"Thirsty," X finally managed to whisper, the single word a monumental effort. The man grunted again. He unslung a canvas satchel from his shoulder and pulled out a metal canteen.
He unscrewed the cap and tossed it over. It landed in the sand a few feet from X. "Don't gulp it," he commanded. "You'll sick it all up."
X crawled to the canteen, hands shaking, and lifted it to his lips. The water was warm and tasted faintly of metal, but it was the most wonderful thing X had ever experienced.
Following the man's instruction, X took small, careful sips, letting the moisture soothe the raw, burning tissues of his mouth and throat.
It was like life itself pouring back into a vessel that had been emptied.
After a few precious swallows, X looked up at the stranger. "Thank you."
"Haven't decided if I should have saved you yet," the man replied, his voice still gruff, but the hard edge had softened slightly. "Most folks who wander out this far are either running from something or looking for trouble. Which is it?"
"I don't know," X said, the words coming easier now. The honesty of the answer seemed to surprise the old man.
"I woke up in the desert. Two days ago, I think. I don't remember anything. Not my name, not where I came from. Nothing."
The man's weathered face creased with a deep frown. He studied X for a long moment, his gaze intense, searching for a lie.
He seemed to find none. "Amnesia," he said, the word clinical and final. "The wastes have a way of scouring a person clean, one way or another. You're lucky you only lost your memories. Most lose their lives."
He gestured with his rifle towards the dead scorpion. "You have good instincts, I'll give you that. Going in close was a fool's move, but it's the only move that works if you don't have a gun. Where'd you learn to fight like that?"
"I don't know," X repeated, a fresh wave of frustration washing over him. "It just… happened."
The old man's eyes narrowed again, this time focusing on the object still clutched in X's hand. "What's that you're holding?"
X opened their fist. The obsidian pendant lay on their palm, its spiraling carving seeming to drink the light.
It was strangely cool against X's skin, and the faint humming sensation was still there, a subtle vibration that only X seemed to feel. "I pulled it off the creature."
The man's cynicism finally broke, replaced by a look of genuine shock. He took a step closer, his eyes wide. "Let me see that."
His voice was no longer gruff, but tight with a sudden, sharp intensity. X held it out, and the man leaned in, not touching it, but examining it closely.
"By the sun-scorched sands," he breathed. "I'll be damned." He looked from the pendant back to X's face. "You found this on the Ripper?"
"It was tied to its leg," X explained. "What is it?"
"Trouble," the man said flatly. "It's a marker. A brand. I've heard stories, whispers from traders and scavengers. Some of the blighted creatures, the ones that are more than just mindless beasts, carry these.
They're drawn to them. Or maybe they're controlled by them. No one knows for sure. All they know is that they're tied to the heart of the curse."
He straightened up, his gaze distant, as if looking at something far beyond the desert horizon. "My name is Jacob," he said, the introduction abrupt.
"And you, nameless one, have just stumbled into a bigger mess than you can possibly imagine."
Jacob's demeanor had shifted entirely. The detached, wary survivalist was gone, replaced by someone who looked burdened, someone who recognized the symbol on the pendant and understood its dire implications.
He looked at X, then at the endless expanse of the desert, and let out a long, weary sigh.
"The fact that you survived this," he said, gesturing to the dead scorpion, "and that you now hold this," he pointed to the pendant, "means you're either part of the problem or part of the answer, and I'm too old and too tired to figure out which."
He shouldered his rifle. "But I can't leave you out here. The Rippers hunt in packs. Where there's one, there are more. And with that thing on you, they'll find you."
He turned and started walking towards the cliffs. "Come on. We can find shelter for the night. Tomorrow, we have a long walk ahead of us."
"Where are we going?" X asked, scrambling to their feet and clutching the canteen and the pendant.
Jacob didn't look back. "There's an oasis, a settlement, a few days' walk from here. Place called 'The Well'. It's one of the last safe places in this part of the wastes."
He paused, his voice dropping. "They need to see this pendant. And they need to see the person who survived taking it."