The sand kicked up , as the heavy end of the sword collided with one of the dunes, redistributing sand among the seemingly restless desert. The man was quite tired of hauling this cumbersome weapon around, but he would be granted very little time for rest. The sun would soon be setting on this ocean of sand, and a night spent out here was a night spent huddling for warmth as the lifeless winds of the desert blew through you. It reminded him of the harsh winters back home. With a minute to catch his breath, the man heaved his blade back upon his shoulders, with an audible crack from the shattering ice left behind from the blades perch. The wind was picking up now, blowing east. Pangs of worry raced across him. Should the Judge be closer now, then that desert breeze would carry his scent right to it. Taking a deep breath, he took the next step, and pushed his way forward. Frost would need to find this outpost soon, as time was a luxury he could never afford.



Being a wanted man sucks.