Demons of the Desert

This story is a fan-fiction of MLP:FiM. I don't own any of it. It belongs to Hasbro, etc, etc.

Don't sue. Seriously. That would be so uncouth.

Legends and Sands

The burning sun was finally setting on the sands of the San Palomino desert, the edges of the flaming oranges, yellows, and reds tinging the sky shared by the royal sisters as Celestia’s day turned into Luna night, filled with deep blues, purples, and star-studded black sky. A small group of ponies and bison sat around a campfire, their sleeping rolls set out, and their marshmallows cooking over the fire. The laughter of fillies and foals of both pony and bison variety rang out across the night as they cajoled and played in the growing dark. As Luna’s moon rose in the east and the stars grew brighter and brighter, the aged bison, the one who always took the young ones out, spoke up.

“Quiet down children, quiet down.” She said softly, her voice sounding like the shifting sands. “It is time to hear one of the greatest legends.”

“Is this another one like the great constellation stories?” asked a young foal, his mouth full of marshmallow.

“Yeah, is it the Legend of Crimson Moon! I love that one!” a bison filly squealed in excitement.

The wise old bison just chuckled. “No, no my children. This is a much different story. This is a true story, a story of a living legend.” She said, tossing some dust into the flame, turning it different colors. At this point, all the fillies and foals were rapt with the shaman’s storytelling skills.

“Our legend starts not with life, but with death, young ones. But remember, this legend was of our desert, so…”

“What the desert takes, it give back.” All the children said in unison, so used to the old shaman’s phrases.

The shaman smiled. “Yes, my children. Now listen as I tell the story, from death to life…”

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

The thunder in the distance was not a good sign. One would think thunder would make the life of the San Palomino desert happy, as thunder usually meant rainwater, a valuable source of life in this arid environment. But one would be wrong.

Chief Ironhorns looked back at his shaman, Sandcoat. He did not like the look on his face. The thunder in the distance continued, dry lighting flashing in the clouds, winds whipping the ground and creating small sand devils all around the whole tribe of bison. The Chief was rarely scared, but this was one of the worst omens possible. He and his shaman had been around long enough to know what it meant and they both disliked it. In fact, it was the whole reason why Chief Ironhorns had made his whole tribe pack up and trek as far away from the storm as possible as the thunder and winds started up. A storm of this size could only mean one thing: the spirits of the dead were angry.

And when the spirits of the dead were angry, the created demons that scoured the desert for eternity, until they received their vengeance. They were known to all the tribes by one name.

Chindi: Demons of the Desert.

“Father! Father! Quickly! We found something!” called the voice of Eagle, Chief Ironhorns’s son and the best scout in the tribe. He was renown across the shared tribal lands as the owner of the best eyes and a hunting ability that could even outfox the Coyote. It was even more amazing that he was so young, only eight summers of age. However, when he found something, it was always something important.

The Chief started running to the head of the tribe, all moving in a column after the young Eagle. Sandcoat was nipping at the Chief’s hooves as he ran up to where his son, still slender and scrawny as all bison are at that age, jumped up and down, pointing into a shallow hole.

The Chief and Shaman looked into the hole, seeing nothing for a moment until some lighting illuminated the night sky, showing them what was in the hole. They gasped together as they saw the crumpled body of a young earth pony, about the same age as Eagle, laying in the blood stained sand.

As thunder echoed through the desert, the shaman Sandcoat lowered himself into the hole. He put his hooves on the colt’s body. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, before shouting to the Chief.

“I need the medical tent set up. NOW!”

The chief went off to get the things set up, leading the growing crowd of bison around the hole to do their jobs that would help the shaman. Sandcoat looked over the colt once again. It didn’t seem like there was any major injuries to him, other than the fact that somepony had cut off his front right leg and left him for dead out in the desert. It was obvious somepony had intended for him to bleed out and die, but by his defiant breaths, he was still alive. But his life was slipping. Sandcoat knew it would be too late by the time the medical tent was set up and his wounds were cleaned and sealed.

Yet, as the shaman pulled him out of the hole, he looked up to the sky. The tumult of the storm was the sign he needed. He knew what must be done. He knew that the spirits wanted this one to live. As the medical tent was set up feet before the shaman, the water warmed, tools unwrapped, and towels moistened, he carried the colt gently into it. He laid the prone body on a mat of dried Palo Verde leaves and grasped the medicinal herb pouch from his neck as he started a fire next to the colt. As the fire flared into life, he removed a few herbs and threw them into the fire. The flames changed color and the Shaman started chanting as he cleansed the colt’s wound. This would take all night; but the colt would be dead before dawn. The shaman chuckled as he knew the colt would be awake for tomorrow’s dinner though.

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

At 04:32 hours, any normal pony doctor would have declared the colt dead. “He died from massive dehydration along with substantial blood loss,” they would have told you. However, at 06:43 hours, the same doctors would have told you “He has a steady pulse and breathing rate. He should be fine, as long as he keeps the wound clean.”

Around 07:00 hours, Sandcoat came out of the medical tent, drenched in sweat and looking quite haggard. He gave a toothy smile to Chief Ironhorns, the chief’s wife Sunshine, and their son Eagle.

“He will be fine.” Sandcoat sighed, sitting down on the gentle dust-sand around him.

“What does this mean?” the chief asked. “He did die, did he not?”

“Yes…but…well, I didn’t bring him back so much as just let him come back.” The shaman said, rolling onto his back to look up at the fiercely blue skies.

“What do you mean shaman?” the three asked.

“What I mean is that the spirits helped him. He is no longer who he once was. He has died and has come back.”

“The Chindi…” the Chief said with bewilderment glimmering in his eyes. “We…we must help him in whatever way we can.”

“Yes.” The shaman said as he closed his eyes. “We will. But now, I need a nap.” The chief and his family left the shaman in peace, all stunned at what this meant. Secretly, the Shaman did not sleep. His mind was racing too much to even allow his beaten body one moment of rest. He remembered what the spirits had done to this colt. How they…changed him.

But this was all too new! Nothing like this had ever happened before! Not in the history of all the tribes of the San Palomino. The shaman cracked his eyes open and looked at the sun above his head. It hurt his eyes and he could feel the heat of the sun warming his whole body, coaxing it to sleep, repairing it while his eyelids fluttered.

A living Chindi. No. The Chindi of the desert, in a living form, able to act both in the spiritual world and the living one…

Would he look for nothing but vengeance as all the Chindi spirits did? Or would he do something more, look for something better than vengeance???

Sandcoat the shaman wondered these things as he fell into a deep sleep under the sun.