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The path was long and twisted. Through the mountains it slithered, winding and climbing, as an endless wandering river of stone and dust. Tirelessly did it glide past steep cliffs, over great plains. And when the path met with the perilous deserts of the mysterious land, the cobblestones engulfed by the piles of thick grains, it slowly vanished until the two were one in the same. The path was swallowed, and only a white, flat sea could be seen for leagues and leagues. The man looked back at his caravan of two packhorses. He looked back, and sighed. The beasts would not survive the trek. But he brought them anyway. The three stared into the blinding desert, and they continued onwards.

Olive and Shadow were the horses' names, inspired by their light green and dark grey eyes. The creatures carried a great load each; sacks, bags, and barrells were tied to their backs and hanging from their sides. The beasts of burden carried beatiful silks to logs and sheets of iron to jewels, and dozens of them; the amount of merchandise they carried could easilly be worth a chest full of silver. And yet no guards came to defend the caravan from bandits, no mercenaries were hired and brought along in case a snake or other creature was to show up and disrupt the convoy. There wasn't even enough water or other supplies. But the man continued on fearlessly, guiding the brown horses through the scorching heat.

His name was unknown to most, the man. His silvery blue eyes glared at the wavy illusions that the heat had presented, offering to him. He glared, and declined. The wavy black hair that rested on his shoulders blew wildly during short, windy periods. The man's dark and loosely layered clothing let the breeze caress his body, but gave easy passage for the deadly heat to escape. From a distance, one could not see his pale flesh, only the grey robes that demanded attention from every grain of sand, every speck of dust in the dry air. It was as if... as if the man wanted to be found out there, alone in the wilderness. Alone with two horses and a great bounty that waited to be snatched away where no one would hear cries for help.

And so the journey continued for countless hours. The days blended into nights and the nights into days. The man rested every now and then systematically, yet he knew not how often. Time meant nothing to him in the maddening heat, the surely endless white and yellow blur that surrounded him on every side. He did not eat, the man only rested and drank. And his horses collapsed. So he waited.

It could have been half a day, or even half an hour, before the vultures arrived, encircling over the man and his slain horses, waiting for him to join the dead. But he did not. He only sat. And he waited. Eventually, the scavengers ignored the man and landed, feasting upon the fallen horses. And the man just sat. And he waited. The sun grew old and red and it collided with the desert. And the man still sat. And he waited. The flies were unbearable, yet he bore them; the heat was killing, yet he lived on. And for a day and a half more he sat, and for a day and a half more he waited. Waited for them to come.

And they did come, eventually. The man saw them miles away as they saw him miles away. And so he sat. And he waited. He eyed the beasts they rode with awe. The magnificent sand-colored beasts with four legs and long necks walked slowly, yet tirelessly in the desert. The riders sat atop the creatures' heavilly arched backs, their entire bodies rising and lowering with every step that the beasts took. The man figured the creatures would taste delicious, for the humps on their backs must have been filled with great, tender meat. And perhaps they were. He never asked when he came to the desert. The men that rode the beasts wore black clothing and deep blue face masks. They always had those strange face masks, perhaps they were a warning to all nearby, a last chance to run. But where would one run to in this place? The man finally stood and he smirked to himself as the four others came closer and closer, so slowly yet just fast enough. They were in no hurry, for they had bountiful supplies. A fifth hump-backed creature carried great flagons of water. Just like they always did, the man thought to himself. At last, the four men and five beasts stopped, for they were only a few yards away now. One man, obviously the leader of the small group, spoke.

"Had a bit of bad luck, have yeh?" he sneered with his yellow eyes.

The man, looking down at his dead and eaten horses, spoke softly. "You could say that."

"Great, innit? That we don' have to set our own traps in this damned place. Desert does it for us!" The yellow-eyed man sniggered. He and the other three jumped off their hump-backed beasts and walked close to the man. The man's silvery blue eyes caught the glare of the scimitars on their hips, tied to their rope belts. He smiled back at the others and nodded. "You could say that."

"Well boys, looks like 'ts our lucky day. Jes' look at all them nice, shiney stuffs! We'll split it up later. Let us have a bit 'a fun first." And with those words, the four men grabbed and wielded their scimitars.

"You fools are all the same," the man sighed. "I was hoping you would be worth fighting. I could've taken the long route to the eastern harbor and saved my breath with you. It's a shame I wasted so many good jewels and skins on the bait to draw you in."

"He seeks death? Then let us give 'im what he seeks! Then we'll loot this dead man's stuff up good!" Yellow Eyes cried out. And so the four bandits charged at the blue-eyed man in the middle of the desert, four beasts with great arched backs watching and two dead horses rotting in the sand.

The noise echoed faintly. The marvelous hums and screams of metal clashing and colliding, dancing and sliding, brought the silvery-blue eyed man immersion from the amazing heat. This is what he had planned. His words were just enough to spark the bandits' anger and give him the greatest fight they could offer. He had not eaten in days, yet he had more energy than he would have ever needed to move so poetically with his silver dagger, lunging and dodging, predicting and following through. His opponents lurched at every swiping and stabbing motion that he made. The blade and his hand were one, they shared thoughts, instincts. He was the artist, his dagger the brush, his enemies the canvas. And so he painted away, not holding back even if he didn't need to, bringing forth every piece of effort that he could. Faceless and featureless men swung their crooked blades in a clumsy effort to slow the man, but to him they were but obstalces. Obstacles lining the path to victory.

A bandit found himself lying in the sand, blood seeping through his dark clothing, staining the ink in every fiber for a cold and mocking eternity. He closed his eyes, weeping, waiting for the end to come. And he feared the future. He feared the darkness, the chains that guilt had placed upon his limbs. He buried his face into the sand, forgetting the scimitar next to himself. And he died. And so the battle continued between three bandits and a blue-eyed wanderer.

The three bandits struck out at the blue-eyed man in a single attack, but all were parried by the tiny metal shard in his hand. He jumped and thrusted, he danced with his blade in the endless desert. And for an absolutely endless amount of time this continued, time itself had been slain in the fight. So the four continued. Until there were three. And soon after, there were only two.

The yellow eyes in the sea of darkness and hate snarled at the man with the blue eyes. They snarled and roared with rage of their fallen comrades. The lone bandit, drenched with sweat, fought two opponents now: the blue-eyed man and the great fatigue that slowly and slowly took control of his motions. What were once fluid sweeps and parries were now mechanical swipes and lucky dodges. As the two figurants continued, the blue-eyed man realized the strange, hump-back creatures had run off as the winds grew more powerful, great waves of sand crashing and growing larger than the last. A great storm had come, gathering around the warriors as they fought on. The men's motion quickened, each attack intensifying, each defense weakening. And the storm grew larger with every clash, until the winds peaked with the slaying of the yellow-eyed bandit. The dagger, plunging deep into the tan man's skin, harvested the being's blood until there was none left to take. The liquid oozed from the fallen bandit's chest for a long time, and the blue-eyed man continued to watch it. He exhaled, smiling, and when the body was entirely buried, he looked to his left and began digging.

It was hours more when the man found one of the rotting horses and its burden. Through a barrel he searched, removing every last one of the valuable items, throwing them into the stormy winds with a careless motion, until he found the small, dark brown bag in the bottom. He took the satchel, kissed it, and stood. And he searched for the strange beasts.

It must have been a long time before he found them, for it was dark when the man came upon the dead creatures, half-buried in the desert. The storm continued, but had become was then just a whisper compared to its great magnitude of that morrow. The man, a small satchel now hanging from his belt, brought his dagger into the hump of the slain beast closest to him. He found himself exhaused, not from the battle of that day, but the perilous wandering and scouring before he had found the creatures. And so, he ripped open the hump of the beast. And he ate. The meat was stretchy and tough, very much unlike what the man expected. As he feasted, he remembered the last words he exchanged with the yellow-eyed bandit...

The victor looked down upon the fallen combatant. And the dying adversary whispered with his last breaths.
"What are yeh...?" he asked. "Yeh should b' a dead man... we had ya..."
The victorious man smiled, and replied, "I believe I already am a dead man. And what better time to be one than now?"

Burying his hands in the sand, searching for the water that the one camel carried, the man found none. The storm has killed me, he told himself, but I will die a happy man. And I shan't give up until the fates rip me from my ragged body. The jugs of water had been lost, and so he continued his journey.

He knew the risks, the man. And he took them without fear and without questioning. Such great lengths he took, his entire life's fortune had been spent into the convoy he lost. The months it took for him to indirectly spread the rumors of his treasures moving through the ocean of sand were well spent down to the last moment. And his journey was just as he had planned it. In the freezing night, the sand nothing different from ice, the man laughed. He chuckled at his accomplishment, and he convulsed with joy at the thought of what he had done. His entire life revolved around this journey, and he was glad he had succeeded. His heart filled with pride as his lungs filled with dust, he rolled in the freezing paste, unable to control himself. He wept in joy at the great life he had been given, and he was not disappointed at the storm that had dealt him a mortal blow, the hours behind schedule that could have saved him, digging in the sand for his bag. He danced with the brown satchel in his hand. He danced and danced. And then he returned to his journey.

The sun rose, freezing sheets of ice had suddenly become boiling bubbles of magma under his feet. Yet he persevered. The little strength the tough meat had given him was depleted, and the man fell into the lava, his arms just above his chest, gripping the satchel. Too bad only four bandits came. He smiled. His final test was complete, and he passed with flying colors. After so many journeys through the desert, this by a great distance was his best. The perfect one to end him.

And that it did.

The man's arms fell to his sides with his last breath, the satchel plummeting to the desert floor. When it had landed, the bag opened, and six small marbles rolled out. Silvery blue they were, and very beautiful. Beautiful enough to die for. And so they sank into the sand, escaping from the great heat, and they were never seen again.