The sun shimmered and reflected offa the sands of the desert. It spanned out for miles--eons, even--until it met the stony hills of shingle, and then the mountains beyond. The sky was cloudless, with not a single cloud in sight. Blue as the sea, it seemed to revolve around the desert, spinning, spinning, SPINNING...
Small caravans of tents--more so huts--scattered the sand fields like dust upon an attic floor. Miles were between the tents, and for good reason. The breeze blew, and rippled the flesh of the tents. A bare, dead fire let out its last breath as its few remaining embers were blown away--flashes of flame scattered from their brothers and sisters at the breeze's doing.
Amid one of the scattered pimples that were huts, there was one camp that was composed of only ONE tent. The flaps of the door of the hut were swung back, and out came a man. Dressed in black, loose pants, and shirtless, the man entered the desert scene. His hair was loose, and long--tangled with clots of sweat--as black as midnight. He threw back the flaps, and stepped out into the sand, shoeless. Among the other desert-folk--"nomads", or so the mountain-folk called them--this man was known as "The Loner", or "Nameless One." He kept to himself, fed himself, hunted by himself. Anyone who stood in his way or tried to oppose him ended up dead, staked upon a sharpened stick. He was dangerous, and not friendly.
The sand that blew into his face bit, and cut his skin as the pebbles whipped by in the desert breeze--which was equivalent to a wind among the mountain valleys. Pulling up a kerchief tied around his throat, he secured it around his ears. It fit perfectly around his mouth and nose, but, unfortunately, did not shade his eyes.
He wandered toward the firepit which had been dug earlier the previous day. Embers still glowed among it. He passed this, and made for the well--stones stacked around the wooden structure that resembled a fork, holding a wooden bucket tied to a rope that was worn with age, which could be lowered down into the well's deep depths. It was clear that this was his destination.
The wooden bucket tied to the forked-structure was secured by a tight knot around a protruding knob of the wooden frame. The man untied it, with ease--obvious that he had done this many, many times before--and grasped the oaken handle of the bucket. He slowly and carefully lowered the bucket down into the well.
Small caravans of tents--more so huts--scattered the sand fields like dust upon an attic floor. Miles were between the tents, and for good reason. The breeze blew, and rippled the flesh of the tents. A bare, dead fire let out its last breath as its few remaining embers were blown away--flashes of flame scattered from their brothers and sisters at the breeze's doing.
Amid one of the scattered pimples that were huts, there was one camp that was composed of only ONE tent. The flaps of the door of the hut were swung back, and out came a man. Dressed in black, loose pants, and shirtless, the man entered the desert scene. His hair was loose, and long--tangled with clots of sweat--as black as midnight. He threw back the flaps, and stepped out into the sand, shoeless. Among the other desert-folk--"nomads", or so the mountain-folk called them--this man was known as "The Loner", or "Nameless One." He kept to himself, fed himself, hunted by himself. Anyone who stood in his way or tried to oppose him ended up dead, staked upon a sharpened stick. He was dangerous, and not friendly.
The sand that blew into his face bit, and cut his skin as the pebbles whipped by in the desert breeze--which was equivalent to a wind among the mountain valleys. Pulling up a kerchief tied around his throat, he secured it around his ears. It fit perfectly around his mouth and nose, but, unfortunately, did not shade his eyes.
He wandered toward the firepit which had been dug earlier the previous day. Embers still glowed among it. He passed this, and made for the well--stones stacked around the wooden structure that resembled a fork, holding a wooden bucket tied to a rope that was worn with age, which could be lowered down into the well's deep depths. It was clear that this was his destination.
The wooden bucket tied to the forked-structure was secured by a tight knot around a protruding knob of the wooden frame. The man untied it, with ease--obvious that he had done this many, many times before--and grasped the oaken handle of the bucket. He slowly and carefully lowered the bucket down into the well.
