Arbon’s feet sank into the sand as he walked. Weapons clinked about in his backpack as he swayed continuously, re-balancing himself with every step. The sun beat down on his drying scales, warming them like the craggy outcroppings of a canyon. His tail left a slithering rut in the sand as he walked. The winds were furnace-hot, like the gods were trying to turn the desert to glass. As they blew, they ate away Arbon’s trail, leaving no evidence that he had ever been anyplace but where he was at that moment.
Dark shapes shimmered to life in the distance. The hot waves distorted whatever they were into phantasms. Arbon’s pace didn’t falter. The wind carried the scent to him before the figures solidified. It smelled like graveyard dirt. The images solidified into dead bodies strewn across reddened sand that had been churned to mud by blood and combat. The mouths of men and women hung open, like mole holes had been dug into their death masks. Arbon stopped before one of the bodies. It was already partially covered in sand, as if the desert itself were attempting to give it a proper burial. He swung his backpack off his shoulders and set it on the pliant ground. With deft hands, he unhooked its steel bracers. The sun beamed off their sleek surface as he placed them in his backpack. He picked his way across the battlefield, plucking pieces of armor from various bodies as he went.