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Within the swirling tides of a freak sandstorm rides a solitary figure. The hooves of their steed produce a soft crunch against the sand below in a melancholic trot. All view of the outside world is completely blocked off, and so the unknown rider keeps moving forward, blindly, unable to even see the ground their steed is stepping on. And though the beast huffs in disapproval from time to time, their master remains in a stiff posture, bracing against the gusts and the showers of particles like an un-erodible cliff.
Minutes of this pass before the world reveals itself to them. Rays of blinding white shoot through the sandy veil as it collapses bit-by-bit in front of them, and they tilt the wide brim of their hat over their eyes, simultaneously tugging their steed into a stop with a gentle “Woah.” Soon the dust falls away, leaving the rider’s view as nothing but a harsh red landscape shimmering for miles all around; horizons shooting and twisting up into massive, impossible, sharply carved formations curving in on themselves; and above, a sky of a frustratingly sheer blue--not even a single wisp of cloud--no promise of rain in sight--and radiating from its center that white light that seems to spill from a crack leading to the very heavens.
The light reveals our sand-covered subject: a Caucasian man clothed in a whole spectrum of browns, most notably the beat-up pecan cowboy hat, the espresso poncho decorated with symbols of rectangular white lines, and the dull beaver-colored handkerchief pulled up to his nose. His face has been tanned into a crisp orange. Lifting up his brim, he squints out into the landscape, and with a gloved hand he pulls down his handkerchief, revealing the brown scruff across his face. The handsomeness of a man in his prime is apparent in his features--despite the usual grime of a well-traveled man--and yet a few deeper lines across his brow and on either end of his frown go against this ostensible youth.
His head snaps from here to there, and then he spins his horse around, scanning the entire horizon. This brings him no satisfaction, and he continues to look around for some time, until at last his shoulders sag and his arms fall into his lap. His expression is unchanged, except for a gleam of bewilderment in his eye. After a moment, he fishes through a small satchel on his belt, producing a cigar from it. He chews it like a steak as he then produces a matchbook, and striking a light off his rough jeans, he lights the roll of poison and thoughtfully puffs away at it.
Several more moments are spent idly, until a decision is made. Leaving the glowing cigar in his mouth, he takes hold of the reins and moves on in uncertainty, directly ahead, towards a path cleaved straight through a miles-spanning wall of stone.
Minutes of this pass before the world reveals itself to them. Rays of blinding white shoot through the sandy veil as it collapses bit-by-bit in front of them, and they tilt the wide brim of their hat over their eyes, simultaneously tugging their steed into a stop with a gentle “Woah.” Soon the dust falls away, leaving the rider’s view as nothing but a harsh red landscape shimmering for miles all around; horizons shooting and twisting up into massive, impossible, sharply carved formations curving in on themselves; and above, a sky of a frustratingly sheer blue--not even a single wisp of cloud--no promise of rain in sight--and radiating from its center that white light that seems to spill from a crack leading to the very heavens.
The light reveals our sand-covered subject: a Caucasian man clothed in a whole spectrum of browns, most notably the beat-up pecan cowboy hat, the espresso poncho decorated with symbols of rectangular white lines, and the dull beaver-colored handkerchief pulled up to his nose. His face has been tanned into a crisp orange. Lifting up his brim, he squints out into the landscape, and with a gloved hand he pulls down his handkerchief, revealing the brown scruff across his face. The handsomeness of a man in his prime is apparent in his features--despite the usual grime of a well-traveled man--and yet a few deeper lines across his brow and on either end of his frown go against this ostensible youth.
His head snaps from here to there, and then he spins his horse around, scanning the entire horizon. This brings him no satisfaction, and he continues to look around for some time, until at last his shoulders sag and his arms fall into his lap. His expression is unchanged, except for a gleam of bewilderment in his eye. After a moment, he fishes through a small satchel on his belt, producing a cigar from it. He chews it like a steak as he then produces a matchbook, and striking a light off his rough jeans, he lights the roll of poison and thoughtfully puffs away at it.
Several more moments are spent idly, until a decision is made. Leaving the glowing cigar in his mouth, he takes hold of the reins and moves on in uncertainty, directly ahead, towards a path cleaved straight through a miles-spanning wall of stone.