Akjaba walked through the Desert stronghold, looking at the shady figures which continued to look at him like he was some filfth. He wore his Desert attire, and the
turban and mask which covered his face. His scimitar rested in its sheathe, which
was connected to his belt by some fine velvet coloured rope. He kept his hand rested on the scimitar, as it looked like he wouldn't get out of here without any
bruises and cuts. [Eh, ill do my 500 words later i gotta go out]
OOC: Feel free to put your posts now, as i said i'll get around to my post later.

Jaz Verdek moved silently to the well in the middle of the square, keeping his head down to keep from being blinded by the sun's glare as shuffled through the crowd. He had drawn the bandana which usually rested around his neck up over his nose to keep from inhaling the yellow/brown sand that seemed to hang in the air like fog. He had long since ceased to struggle against the sand in his hair, instead focusing on maintaining as low of a profile as possible.

Located in the heart of a desert nearly as impenatrable as the city's iron walls, Angband, the Fortress of the Desert, was a rough place. As a child, Jaz had heard rumors of the place's existance, but had dismissed them all as fantasy. The truth, it turned out, was far worse.

Back in Lomedor, he had, on occasion, seen merchants dressed in the fashion of the desert dwellers, and had often commented on how bizarre their attire had seemed. Like most people from more hospitable climates, he had never realized the value of their desert camels, dismissing them as an ugly, uncooperative and expensive alternative for the far more common horse. It was only after watching the camels endure painlessly the heat that killed horses that he began to understand. So to had the robes and headgear commonly worn by desert nomads been the butt of many a joke, until now, facing scorching heat and continual barrages of wind-driven sand that could peel paint off a wall, he wished he had acquired similar gear when he had the chance.

He arrived at the well, dropping the small bucket down the into the cistern. It took a frightneningly long time to strike the watertable. Once he had pulled the bucket back up, he drank the small amount of water quickly, for fear that someone might take notice of him.

In the city of Angband, even the bonds of familial tribal allegiance so important to desert nomads were known to mean little, and that couldn't possibly bode well for a fish-out-of water Half-Elf with no connections or money to barter his way out of trouble with. He may have been able to pass himself off as a desert elf, but without Desert Elf attire or knowledge of their language, the ruse would be impossible.

Although he had no money of consequence for a theif to steal, from the way the vagabonds in the street hungrily eyed his boots he knew that a lack of money alone would not stop them.

He left the well for shade off the central road, finding refuge in the shadow a low slung clay building, and though his new position offered little protection from the ambient blast furnace temperature, it get him out from under the opresive rays of the sun. He had to remain squeezed against the building though, as the shadow barely reached over his toes.

It was then that he took stock of his present situation. The merchants had made reference to a vast underground labyrinth which held twice again the city's population. The only trouble, it seemed, was how to get into it, which the merchants never revealed. Clearly, he would have to go look for it.

Thinking about searching the town made him remember the sun on his head. An unpleasant memory, too be sure.

"Well, no time like the present..."