Barely visible only a few feet away, the woman's figure was covered from head to toe in robes that seemed impervious to the windbome assault. Bedouin Kevlar huh? John watched as she moved along a path that had been obscured in the reduced visibility. The path turned down, and the wind and scouring markedly dropped. He shoved Rodney ahead of him and ensured that Ronon and Beckett were right behind before following.
The woman led them under the cliff ledge and down to the village they'd observed from above. "Handy little passage," remarked Rodney, once he'd gotten his mild hyperventilation under control. "Once you know it's there, it wouldn't be hard to locate."
Up close, the buildings were even more impressive than they'd looked from a distance: solid, stable structures designed to withstand the scorching days and frigid nights that most deserts enjoyed. Openings for windows and doors were securely shuttered, presumably against the sandstorm, though a number of animals-medium-sized llama-type things-remained outside, looking unbothered. Half-built, half-carved out of the cliff face, the village might have been constructed ten decades or ten millennia ago.
The wide rock overhang now protected them from the worst of the storm. Still, they needed to find shelter before it really took over. The woman leading them moved swiftly, but without any kind of panic in her stride. John glanced up when the sky overhead darkened, and was relieved when their guide ushered them through a nearby entrance. She pulled the door closed behind them and the furious whistling immediately dulled.
They had entered a tall atrium that looked completely different on the inside than it had from the outside. The walls were painted with swirls of rich color, and large pots holding waxy-looking plants sat between stone benches painted in equally bright hues. The `ceiling' of the atrium, about thirty feet away, glowed with a light similar to what they'd found in Atlantis. The proximity of the Ancient structure beneath the sand dune suggested a connection.
The woman removed her outer cloak, revealing a short-sleeved dress, featuring the same rich tones as the frescoes, and stylish jewelry accented with highly polished stones.
"The storm will pass, but it may take time." Her expression somewhat apologetic, she shook out her robe and hung it on a peg on the wall beside hundreds of similar cloak-draped pegs. "I hope you were not alarmed."
"Nah, no sweat." Behind him, John heard a snort that sounded like Ronon. Traitor. "But we really appreciate you taking us in. I'm Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard. My friends here are Dr. Rodney McKay, Specialist Ronon Dex, and Dr. Carson Beckett." He gingerly brushed a hand through his hair, hoping to shake out the firebrands that had stung his neck and scalp.
"I am Shira. You are welcome in my village."
Rid of the heavy robes, Shira was slight, with dark, intelligent eyes and a chestnut braid that hung well past her shoulders. If John had run into her on Earth, he would have pegged her for an attractive forty-ish, but he didn't have the first clue how long a year lasted on this planet.
"We do not often receive unexpected visitors." She took several stiff-haired brushes from another row of hooks behind the door and handed one to each of them.
"I can't imagine why not," Rodney said, though his sarcasm was tempered by appreciation for her efforts. He pulled off his jacket and carefully shook it out.
Shira didn't appear to take offense. Instead, she began brushing off Rodney's back. "These storms give little warning. Few people traveling through the Stargate when the red sands blow have a chance to return home. You need not fear the yellow sands," she pointed out when Rodney jerked away from Ronon shaking his dreadlocks. "They will not bum you."
"Yeah, about that." Elizabeth's first-contact guidelines, which John had promptly nicknamed Diplomacy for Dummies, didn't really recommend peppering their savior with questions right off the bat, but they were on a tight schedule. Besides, he was pretty damned curious about this whole setup. "Why did you risk getting caught in the storm to help us? And how is it that your clothes weren't"-his skin still felt a sunburn-like tingle in places, and he stuck a finger through a newly-formed hole in his sleeve-"damaged?"
"We are less susceptible." Shira turned to Carson next. Unselfconscious, she kneeled and dusted off a few reddish grains from his boots. Before he could object, she had already shifted her attention to John. "Having lived with it for so many generations, we have become tolerant to it. Our children are more at risk, and we do still require some protection. The outer garments you see here"-finishing her task, she looked across at the rows of cloaks- "and many of our possessions are made from plants and animal hides that readily endure the storms. However, our skin will withstand much more than that of any off-worlder."
"I'm a doctor." Carson tentatively reached out a hand. "A healer and scientist. Would you mind if I-?"
With an understanding smile, Shira held out her bare arm for him to examine. Now that John thought about it, her olive skin did look a little tougher than the average human's. It didn't noticeably affect her overall appearance, however.
As Beckett studied her arm, Ronon's gaze fixed on the wide, intricate bracelet that she wore. "I've seen that before," he said when John shot him a quizzical look. "Not that exact one, but jewelry like it. I've heard about these people."
Rodney, who was still patting himself down for red dust, spun toward him. "Is there some legitimate reason that prevented you from mentioning that fact earlier?"
The Satedan shrugged, unmoved by the other man's indignation. "I never said I knew the name or the gate address. I just remember hearing some tales. A planet with dangerous storms, people returning either badly scarred or not at all. With the sand, it makes sense"
"Yes, hindsight is terribly accurate that way, isn't it?"
"Give him a break, Rodney. He couldn't have known." John turned back to Shira. "Anyway, we're-"
"I know who you are." She looked unspeakably pleased. "Your ship tells me that the Ancestors have at last returned to Atlantis!"
Well, that was a curveball. Sort of
"You saw us arrive?" Rodney spluttered. "And didn't think to warn us sooner?"
"We're not the Ancestors," John hurried to say, tossing him a warning look. Hadn't McKay read the chapter on Not Pissing Off the Indigenous Population? "We traveled to Atlantis as explorers, but the city was destroyed by the Wraith." The lie came more easily each time he repeated it. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not, but if a lie might keep his expedition alive, that was all he needed to know.
Shira's face clouded, and her smile faltered. "Oh! Such a tragedy." She led them across the atrium. "We have extensive records of Atlantis here. Although many of us have lived in hope that the Ancestors would one day return, an equal number believe their home had indeed been lost to the Wraith."
"The Wraith can be kind of infuriating that way."
"Still, you must be of Ancestor blood." She opened a door at the far end of the room and stepped through into a wide corridor whose walls were covered in more colorful designs. "Only they could operate the ships."
Despite being relatively isolated, these people had a surprisingly decent grasp of all things Ancient. Hopefully that meant finding Atlas's machine wouldn't be too difficult. "We're descendants of the Ancestors, more or less," John answered. The slight pressure change that popped his ears signaled that they'd just gone through a huge airlock of sorts. "Some of us call them Ancients, and we're trying to learn more about them."
Nodding sagely, Shira closed the door behind them. "To answer your question," she told Rodney, "I was collecting salt from the great pans when I heard the 'gate. I climbed the nearest dune in time to see you arrive and assumed you would make for the village. Instead you went to the cliffs. I hurried to you when I realized what would happen."