The cursed weather was not the worst aspect in the desert, it was also the company. Some months ago the Rider had been sent to keep his eyes on the northern areas of Ea, his assignment simple yet so complex. After the war was over he was forced to resign from heavy combat. Every step Seraphiel took was pain enough, for the war, while not mentally scarring, had taken its toll on his body. He limped horribly now and had little control over the muscles in his left hand. All that he had been had been virtually stripped away, and now all that was left was a human – albeit a very strong human. He was still a goliath amongst the normal people in the world, easily standing out amongst the crowds, but to his credit the desert was an easy place to disappear.

Angband had become the general’s home. He had taken up residence there as per BADI’s request, Sartana specifically, and periodically sent information down to the guild to let them know what was happening. He was aware of other operatives, of other members of the guild who came and went, but he was the only one who had made the place his home – easily blending in with the other locals. Every day as he walked the back alleys of the abandoned fortress he constantly brooded over that very fact. How far had he descended into darkness? Was he a lot cause? The mere thought made the large made sigh – he felt further and further away from the guild, further away from the goodness within his heart, and it made him very angry.

Sera had draped himself in a cloak to hide himself, pulling the neck up high to cover the lower part of his mouth. His hair whipped around his face, the wind blowing rapidly, getting caught and hung up on his spiraling horns. The sign of infinity always and forever with him, the curse of partial immortality. He was the neverending, and as he walked through the desert – the sight of Angband just a few hundred yards away. He had left for several days, and had just recently made his way back. However, the sand storm snuck up on him quickly, but he walked along regardless. His green eyes blazed beneath the hood and mask he had made of his cloak, and his powerful arms pulled what was left around his broad shoulders and torso.

By the time he entered the stronghold, however, the storm was beginning to wear thing. He felt as though all eyes were upon him, the gazes of vagrants and vagabonds who prowled the cities, spying on him from slits between window slats. They had never fully welcomed the warrior into the city remembering the problems he had caused months before, but he was not bothered much more than the occasional thief. Most of them, however, ended up a bloody mess. His time in solitude had made him very moody and much more aggressive, and he did not bother when them for very long when confront by them.

As he moved down the streets, ducking down to hide from the blowing winds and stinging sands, he moved very quickly. The end of a sword could be seen, tucked away in a half sheathe that still exposed the blade. He pushed open a door, mindful of the downwards step from the ground into the building’s lower room. Inside was a bar filled with all sorts of disgusting people, but the rider didn’t seem to care. He lived upstairs, but during the day or when the storms were high he was very careful to stay downstairs. In this city if anyone knew where you lived you could be killed in your sleep, and he didn’t want to have to deal with that. So, he found a chair, sat back alone, and kept his back to the wall. It looked as though it was going to be a long day too.

It was easy to lose yourself in the harsh heat and stripping sands. People with all sorts of things to hide, to forget, thought it a good idea to come to the desert. Out here, were no man's law presided over no man's land. It still is a good place to go.

The crazy and twisting flows of air in the ever challenging climate threatened a coming sandstorm. Those who were wise to it decided to seek shelter. People braced the wooden covers to their windows ahead of time. Others who were further ahead padded the edges with rugs and blankets to prevent the onslaught of rubble from coming in. Of course, this never stopped anyone from having a good time. If that was even possible.

In the desert stronghold of Angband, it was necessary to always watch your back. Even when other people were watching your back. In fact, most times, you had to watch the people watching your back. They were the most likely ones to lodge a cold, hard piece of metal in it. Tom knew this well. That's why he always traveled alone. Never getting too involved, or staying too aloof to harm his own benefits. Or goals. But those goals were not much beyond the simple few that plagued every man in his life.

And in this case, his death.

To what purpose was he here? Why was it that he was still alive, and why could he not die? It seemed as though no matter what situation he found himself in, he came out on top. Or at the least, on the side. The bottom meant death, it did. Wonderful it was, that voice, that core power that drove his spirit to new heights of confusion.

Hot, gritty wind caused the shade to sail into a nearby bar. Even though he was a ghost in all senses of the word, whatever power that had taken him from Hell's gates afforded him physicality. It would be necessary to complete his task, although this was unknown to him as of yet.

Difficult it was to navigate Angband, and still more difficult when blind. Of course, being blind meant the sandstorm only effected you in so much as breathing clean air. Tom nearly laughed at that thought. Clean air? Did such a thing even exist in this foul, criminal place?

It made him question why he was here. Bad enough that those other thoughts were already running a endless race through his mind. His staff found purchase in the door to a local bar, singing back to him with a simple and plain 'thumph'. The super-dry wood creaked as it protested against the extra burden. Tom reached out to the door, and groped breifly for the turn handle. Finding it, twisting it, signaled him a metallic twitch and pop.

The door jerked free. It released a whole new stench, a more poungent and foul one than the already ambient scent in the place. Tom's nose wrinkled while feeding his brain the details of it. A gust of wind forced itself into the opening, and with it, forced Tom. The door shut behind him with a loud crack.

Everyone ignored it, and kept on with their individual conversations. Whispers of plots and schemes, heists and murders to be had. The laughter of comradery and fake friendships.

The ghost tapped this way and that on the dirt floor with his staff. Surmising the general area of effect. Bars were difficult places for blind men to navigate. Tom was not entirely unknown to the regulars here, and didn't count it against him for the occasional stumble. He had helped a few of them out of a jam here and there.

Little did the shade know he was to be tested, as he meandered across the space. Littered with chairs and tables, beer glasses and other random motes of junk. Tom Jones had a bit of a bias, you see.

Whenever he entered into a building, for whatever unknown reason, he always preffered to sit or stand in what he perceived to be the top left of the room. Whether or not it really was the top left was up for debate, but to Tom, that's what it was.

The top left table was occupied by a top BADI agent, who was resting upon a chair. this BADI agent was not in the best of moods. Scuttling over to the table and set of chairs, Tom poked around with his staff until he located a leg of the chair he decided fit for him.

It might have been occupied. A hunch that Tom thought good to test. Raising his staff to what he thought about chest level, the shade made an egregious error and ended up placing the end of his wooden pole squarely to the man's forehead.

The metal braced oak resonated slightly at the discovery of flesh and bone. Tom raised an eyebrow, and his sense immediately went to fourth alarm. There was about to be an unhappy person.

Every person in the bar was a potential enemy, and everyone who moved around him caused his hand to dart to the pummel of his sword with every movement. The rider could not control himself for several minutes, but after a short time he kept his hand still on the hilt of the weapon; a white hot grip surrounding the cold shining silver. At one point a beggar approached and he began to slide the weapon from its sheath, but merely the threatening look from Sera convinced him otherwise. His volcanic green eyes burned a hole into the soul, and that man’s empty black heart was set ablaze. He stumbled back, scared, and turned away once he regained his composure. Still, the site of those blazing green eyes would not soon be forgotten.

The bar tender in the makeshift tavern, a dirty old man with a bad eye and a drink in his hand, came and joined the wily old general. He slid a mug of disgusting mead across the table, and Sera, who had grown use to the casual exchange, and pulled his hand out from beneath his cloak to grab the mug before it slid off the table. Then he took a drink, and whipped his lips off on his sleeve getting the taste of the krognith off. It was a very disgusting drink made from fermenting mold, but the rider never understood where in Angband they got the mold from. He supposed in the cellars and such, but the desert was a dry place where very little could grow.

The bartender, in his usual raspy voice, spoke very kindly to the rider, which was a rare thing in the desert stronghold. “My boy,” he said, patting the tabletop with a bit of a chuckle, “You know it’s safe to go upstairs. These idiots are not going to bother you.” The bartender knew, however, that Sera would not go to his living quarters before everyone was gone, and he knew even better that the general wasn’t even listening to him though the man responded in time. He humored the grizzled old barkeep with a grin and a shake of his head, but both of them knew it was just the daily routine.

“You know better,” the warrior said, taking another swig and drowning his sore limbs in sweet liquor. The rancid stench of the old mead still stuck on his breath. He knew, of course, that the bartender wasn’t really serious anymore. The tone of his voice had lost some of its growl since he first came to the city. While once he would’ve chastised the bartender fiercely, there now seemed to be humor in his tongue, and the bartender appreciated that in a place where few had the luxury of joking over their situation. He knew that Sera was a member of BADI, and he knew that living here was just a temporary thing. He had somewhere else to go while many of these people could not make it one hundred yards from the front gates.

“Yes, I suppose,” he responded seconds later.The bartender just shook his head and let out a low “humph”, knowing where their little discussion would lead a hundred times out of a hundred. He glanced around quickly, surveying the bar for a moment, and then turned back to Sera. “Sandstorms been going quite a while. Three days goin’, this one is.”

After taking another long draft of the mead he nodded, and he said, “It’s like that everywhere – even out to the oasis. It came up very fast. Curious.”

“Aye,” the bartender responded, “These have been some strange storms.” His voice was filled with something similar to worry, but he shook it off with a long “Baah.” Then he stood up and said, “Well just let me know if there is anything you need, my friend.” However, he turned abruptly to the sound of fighting behind him, and noticed two of the patrons who were playing a game with strange cards begin to fight. The old bartender ran over to them as fast as he could, but before he came close enough to break up the fight one of the men stabbed the other with a small shiv. It was just one more death inside that particular bar, and one more on the conscience of the bartender.

Sera didn’t look at the bloody mess. He closed his eyes and took a final long swallow of his drink. Suddenly his cup banged into his teeth and his nose, causing him to wince in pain. His eyes watered, and he jerked back instinctively, nearly falling out of his chair. The mug fell to the floor with a clatter, and Sera looked up at his assailant with a scowl. “Watch what you are doing, cur!” His voice was angry and full of rage, his right hand reaching out to his now exposed sword handle and his volcanic green eyes still had tears in the corner. He thought he’d nearly chipped one of his teeth, but it was more the surprise that he’d been struck that angered him. The general was in no mood for a fight, but under the circumstances it appeared as if his words were going to get him in quite a bit of trouble..