The sand was whipped into a frenzy the likes of which seemed so alien and unnatural for those who lived outside of the desert and so normal for those with in. Each gust of wind, each speck of sand and each dune became a trap and a weapon. In this desolate wasteland no one could help you if you where trapped in this swirling void of sand. No one would look for you, you were already dead. For miles around all that could be seen was a fury of brown and yellow sand. Lashing at the landscape and scouring the desert clean of life.

It was through this maelstrom that Samarin walked. Like an age-old pillar or stone standing againced the elements. His whole body seemed out of place. A grey spot in a swirling world of brown. His whole body was made of stone, from head to toe. Grey, cracking darkened stone. His protection againced whatever the desert could throw at him. Though he had to admit it wouldn’t matter. He ruled this place as much as he ruled the caves he traversed, as the mountaintops he climbed and as the forests that he planted. But he did not have control of the winds that drove this storm. So until then he would protect himself.

Wrapped around his stone chest his silken sash was lashed in the wind. It screamed out behind him almost lost in the storm. It trailed away behind him as he climbed ever higher. It must have been one of the largest dunes in this desolate wasteland. He didn’t know, for all the time he had spent on arda he knew almost every cave and hilltop but this ever-changing desert was an ever-changing enigma but there was one thing he did know. As he rose up atop the dunes crest. Below a rock face jutted out, his target. He began to slide now, down the dunes face, his white linen trousers rippling as the wind and sand blasted him. He dug his heals into the sand and felt himself slow to a halt. He began to slip sideways. Edging towards the rock face.

His hand outstretched and touched its rough face. The cave should be here..... It mattered not. He drew himself close and rested a hand on the stone. He spoke softly to it. Seconds later it was torn open as if by a stab from a titan’s sword. He slipped inside the large crack. Almost immediately the howling wind dropped. The split had open into the main cave. He knew what he was doing with stone. Dropping onto the cave floor he gained his bearings. He chose his path and walked the upwards road. Climbing higher his touch never leaving the rock face, his eyes never leaving the path.

The narrow path opened, spreading into a huge cave and at its centre... his prize. He strode to the middle and dropped down on his knees. His hand stroked the blossom that grew there lovingly. He reached down and gently pried loose the fiery red plant. Even in this gentle breeze a flame flickered from its centre. He opened up a leather bag and placed it with in. Perfect. he tied it on his belt and turned around. He stopped. The whisperings of the stone echoed all around him. There was another... here. He stood still, looking at the passage ahead. Right now he had no care for the weak and no love for those in need of his aid. If an enemy he would dispatch them and if it was help they wanted they could look else where. He would see who it was and what they wanted. Who knows maybe for once it would be someone of worth.

The desert kneaded him, working his mind, body, and soul to its merciless ways. He had become a peon to its wrath and fury, a servant to its blistering sun and savage, cutting zephyrs... yet, in true honesty, Horus would not rather be anywhere else. The desert was his home and it had become a part of him. He was a proud figure, staggering only when a sharp wind caught his foot and carried it farther than he had expected his footfall to land. There was little struggle as he climbed the dunes, a masterful ease gracing his movements – a signature quality of the desert-folk that resided in the not-so-far-off Angband. As each tousle of the wind caressed his rugged form, it played with the off-white rags that constructed his humble, commoner apparel... from a distance, he would have appeared as any other desert-faring man, attempting to escape the hot sun and irritating wind.

Yet, upon closer inspection, one might grow to fear in which their sight would reveal: twin, pupil-less eyes of ivory gazed back out into the world from this man, studying the changing landscape and horizon as best he could. A rich, bronze pallor characterized his skin, decorated with a plethora of scars and bruises from previous adventures, some old, some new. Horus was without his steed, for it had been stolen some fortnight or so before... yet, even without his beast of burden, he still proved an intimidating figure: his frame was large, stout and powerful, as required from any desert man. He was not too tall, average in height... muscle rippled with each easy movement he made, shifting beneath the thin cloth of his rags as he pushed himself onward, climbing the sand.

The man paused as he approached the apex of the dune, a calloused, rough hand rising to shield his eyes from the sun as he scouted about, narrowing his strange eyes and observing the landscape that yawned about him, spreading out with sand and turmoil in every direction. Attention falling upon a dark fissure in a rock face, he grinned softly, slowly setting out into its direction. Within minutes, he managed to find a way inside, escaping the sandstorm.

Though his eyes focused ahead on the opening passage before him, leading into some clearing of a chamber, he did not seem concerned nor tensed, his movements loose and careless as he wandered deeper into the caves in an attempt to escape the storm. Yet, only when he was at the mouth of the chamber did he stop, realizing that the figure was indeed animate, breathing slightly beneath that rough, stone texture. The mercenary staggered a step backwards, pausing and quiet as he studied the stranger with his hollow, lifeless gaze... yet, after a strange stretch of silence, the Dhampir decided that this man would be no threat as he had not sensed any hostility radiating from his motions. Still wary, he wandered in closer, letting his eyes fall onto the blossom in which he held.

“Didn’t expect to find someone out here,” he spoke softly, though his tone was coarse and husky, scratchy in quality and forced to such a manner that it was evident this man did not speak much. The Dhampir seemed to dismiss the man of stone from his attention as he glanced around the sanded cavern, only halting his search as he found a slight boulder and sat on it. Prying one boot off his foot and emptying the sand that had slipped into it, Horus gave an indelicate yawn, glancing back up towards the stranger. Replacing the leather article, he repeated such process for the other, brushing his hands together and on the texture of his desert rags after completion.

“What have ye there?” His question seemed to lack the enthusiasm of true interest, yet his expression did not hint in any malicious intent – Horus simply appeared that he did not care. Yet, it was not uncommon that desert-folk were unattached, callous, distant beings – after all, with the hardship of the extreme weather, it was expected that a desert man be bold in both heart and mind to survive whatever the Gods should send his way. And, Horus had to admit, strangers were rare, especially out in the desert itself, where few outsiders survived. He could tell by the way this man moved that he was not of the desert-kin, most likely a stranger than not. “It is often wise to leave be the bounties of the desert. She is a cruel lover and expects her treasures to be untouched.” With a shrug, he added, still appearing uninterested but mildly curious, “...but do as you please. The desert does not know forgiveness, but she is selfish in such a manner she prizes other things more than fire-breathing flowers.”