Scrolls of the Empire's Fall

<Written in a text of completely straight lines in non-intersecting patterns, the First Scroll of the Empire's Fall tells the story of a faithful Reivantan retainer bringing her charge to the Healing Waters of Mother Jaliara, and the blessing received there.>
Abeeda Al-ruhn looked upwards with strained eyes, as the signs of a sandstorm brewing became evident in the skies. At first, she began to pull two coarse burlap scarfs from the pack upon her faithful companion, the camel Derref, before stopping short and sighing. The habit of thinking of the commander first, and herself second was still strong. This stung as she wrapped one around herself like a shawl, thin slits for the eyes remaining, and looked at the dark silk wrappings that covered the corpse on Derref's back.
"Don't look at me like that," she said, looking at the camel as he stared at her, simply wanting more grain, "This was a mistake, and the Mother shall return things to the rightful order. She must".
Taking the bridle of her mount and scaling down yet another massive dune of soft sand, before looking out at a nearly infinite expanse of cracked, dead earth, Abeeda whispered, "Or Reivanta will be lost".

-
The harsh winds began to blow choking dust from the West, making it hard for the lone retainer to breathe, let alone travel further. Hope came, however, in the form of the distant sounds of conversation and laughter. Following the sounds, Abeeda came upon a lone caravan, stopped with tarps pitched against the wind. It's deep orange swirls nearly blended in with the hectic blasting of the storm, because if she had seen these colors, she would not have approached.
Nonetheless, after gripping the hilt of her recurved blade as if it hadn't been there the last three days of swift travel, she rounded the caravan to the front to confirm her fear. Hobgoblins.
"May your caravan spare a spot for my beast and I?" She asked tentatively, her eyes darting over the faces of the gray and orange skinned Hobs, not eager for a fight.
Gesturing to the edge of the caravan, as the sands whipped about on either side, a gray-skinned Hob replied, "We foster no ill will. Take shelter". As he spoke, however, two of the others whisper to eachother before trading meaningful looks with their leader. Abeeda rested against the skiff on the side of the caravan and began to feed Derref dry oats, trying to keep calm despite knowing what the Hobs have done.

-

A few Hobgoblins give Abeeda glances, varying from curious to hateful to worried, but there is little talk for the majority of the sandstorm. Eventually, the gray-skinned leader ventures a question, "Is <untranslateable, dead language, continued meaning: name. Meaning remains: Old Reivantan capital> beautiful as they say?"
Quelling a snide comment, Abeeda nods, "We're attempting to gild the towers to make them shine even in storms like this, to help our people find their way home".
One of the others, looking from side to side and always wary of Abeeda's every movement, asks snappily, "Are you one of the General's?"
Looking in his dark orange eyes, knowing that only she and the assassins could possibly know of the General's death, the warrior replies tersely, "I don't believe you could call me that, no".
The gray skinned leader coughs suddenly, as if on cue, and stands to go piss in the storm, leaving his men with a stern look.
After a short pause, the nervous Hob inquires further, "That's good, 'cause the Lord Seeker said that none of those General's men should come this way since the end of the <dead language, lost meaning> Wars".
Abeeda smiles, watching the Hob closely, "Well its fortunate that I'm not with the General, then, isn't it?"
A lithe-looking Hobgoblin stands as he speaks, walking to Derref, "What is it that a lone nomad might be hauling through such a storm?"
"Old embalming tools," She quickly replied, having been through this lie before, "And ingredients for the process for Dothania to use in the North". This stopped the Hob's outstretched hand short. "They're in need due to the death in <untranslateable, dead language, continued meaning: name. Meaning remains: Old Reivantan capital>".
The smaller Hob turns and laughs, "Damn shame his death, huh?"
The retainer looks into his eyes firmly, knowing she had given no specifics on the Generals death, and only his assassins would know of it here. So, with a flourish, she leapt from her resting position and drew her heavy scimitar in the same motion that clove his head from his shoulders.

With various shouts and cries to the Sun, the Stars, and Avernus, the Hobgoblins began to scramble for their weapons, as Abeeda Al-ruhn leapt to another, carving deep into his skull with a heavy strike as he attempted to reach for a weapon. Moving further, she cut down a third, her Obsidian Galena blade cutting through the iron of her foe.
The last proved more difficult, the previously curious Hob having retrieved a jagged kukri from the sand, he stayed low, advancing upon her ready for her every move. She would turn her blade ready for a twisted over-the-head feint, and he'd have his blade close to twist upward. She would have her blade high ready for a strike powerful enough to cut through that defense, and her opponent would have his blade low, and his feet light, ready to sidestep the attack and stab her quickly before retreating to safety.
After circling for a few minutes and knowing the fifth would return soon, she noticed a weakness in his defense, and so swung her blade wide, as she jumped foreward and punched the Hob upside the jaw, pushing him backward with all her might. Before his heavy form even collapsed, she turned the slash to cut across his chest, digging through his leather wrappings, and blood blossomed over his chest, pouring to the ground.
And such it is one of the first principals of swordsmanship in Reivanta, 'Your opponent's sword is not your enemy. Watch your opponent, not his sword'.

Abeeda's victory was short-lived, as before she could recover, a bolt struck her solidly through the middle of her back, narrowly missing her spine. She spat forth blood as she collapsed on the sands, turning to see the gray-skinned Hob turning cutting through the silk wrappings around the General's corpse on the back of Derref, before he reloaded his crossbow. "What is it that you hope to gain? Dorza killed him days ago, neither of our gods may save him now". Unlike the foolish warriors, the leader of the caravan knew to respect his enemy.
Standing on shaky legs, Abeeda gripped her blade close and walked slowly to the Hob. "The Story must be made right. The Father has shown me that this is not the proper course of the Story".
Grimacing and pulling the lever of the crossbow back, beginning to train it on the murderous woman, the caravan leader replied, "The Story is what we make it, seethar<Jerian language, old meaning, meaning remains: bitch>, and there is no proper course".
"If that is the case, then why is there a Story?" Abeeda smiles at the unanswerable, before she nimbly feints to the right and jumps to the left, slashing at the Hob's legs as the bolt fires through the air, and as he falls she follows the first with a second slash, cutting across his stomach and leaving them both clutching their wounds on the cold sands of the dark night. This taught him another principal of swordsmanship from Reivanta, 'First blood matters less than last breath'.

A puddle of their blood mixed between them, before Abeeda pulls the bolt from her back, and crawls weakly to Derref. For his part, Derref came a little closer, but was busy the last few hours finishing the satchel of oats that his rider had accidentally knocked open when she leapt into combat. The now pale corpse of General Jaad Goodblade stared lifelessly at the stars, and so the desert warrior covered him gain, before taking one glance at the glaring but still dangerous Hob, and pulling herself upon Derrefs already laden back, and riding East.