In the merciless heat of the late afternoon desert, a motley group of Sand Striders huddled under the shade provided by the roof of a dilapidated building. Sweat dripped from their brows as the bandits engaged in a heated argument, their voices growing louder and more animated with each passing moment.

"Camel or no camel, I'm telling you, there's no way a kestrel could outfly a falcon in a race!" barked one Strider, a grizzled man with a bushy mustache that twitched as he spoke.

"Kestrels are more maneuverable, you dimwit!" retorted Mahor, a lanky fellow with a sunburned nose. "They can change direction in an instant, unlike those lumbering falcons."

Ifek, a woman with a tattoo of a serpent winding up her arm, piped up.

"It's not even a fair comparison. Falcons are built for speed, kestrels for agility. It's like pitting a chariot against a dung beetle."

The mustached Strider scoffed, "Well, obviously, the chariot would win!"

Mahor shook his head, exasperated.

"That's not the point, you great idiot! It's about their different strengths. You can't compare them like that."

“My brother got chased by a dung beetle once,” interjected Tikte, a bald man with an impressive array of piercings. “They move quicker than you think.”

“You don’t know how quick I think,” said the mustachioed man.

“Yeah, I’m certain everybody just calls you Foolish Farouk for a bit of irony, do they?” Ifek jabbed.

"’Course not," said Foolish Farouk, twisting his mustache absently. "They call me that because I once mistook a crocodile for a log and decided to take a nap on it.”

“Besides pebble brain o’er here,” continued Tikte. “Everyone knows the real question is whether a desert hawk could take down a scorpion the size of a dog."

As the argument devolved into a cacophony of shouted opinions and colorful insults, the Sand Striders remained oblivious to the world around them, their attention entirely focused on the preposterous debate that consumed them.

Their leader, a burly man with a beard as rough as a sandstorm called Ramose, returned from a distance where he had been relieving himself. He scowled as he caught wind of the ongoing, ridiculous argument among his subordinates.

"By the gods, have you shit heads done the damn thing or not?" he barked, his voice cutting through the din of adversarial conversation. The other bandits fell silent, sheepishly averting their eyes.

Ramose shook his head and spat on the sands.

"It's impossible to find good help these days."

Mahor, hoping to save his fellows some face, wheeled on the spot with indignation.

"Well, it's not like you gave us detailed instructions, boss. You just said to torch the place."

The leader growled, "That's because I thought you lot would know how to burn a damn building down without needing a step-by-step guide scroll!"

"Remember that time we set fire to the wrong village?" the woman with the serpent tattoo asked, a wistful smile on her face.

"Or that time we accidentally burned down our own camp?" added Tikte, chuckling at the memory.

The leader's patience wore thin, and he shouted, "For the love Anubis’s mangy mummy, they oughta call you all the ‘Reminiscing Regiment’ since you’re so keen to reflect on your failures!”

“Hey boss,” Foolish Farouk asked. “What’s ‘reminiscing?’”

“It’s when your best days are behind you, you miserable idiot,” Ramose spat, “and so all you want to do is talk about them."

"My best days are paydays," Tikte remarked. "And there's always more of them to look forward to."

"Not the way you spend your coin," Ifek teased.

"Enough!" Ramose roared. "Get to work, you fat-headed imbeciles! I want this inn nothing more than ashes and smoke by the time the sun sets!"

As Ramose walked away, intent on checking to make sure their stolen haul was secure, the Striders scrambled to their feet, abandoning their banter in favor of the task at hand. They quickly set about gathering flammable materials and dousing the isolated inn in oil, eager to make up for lost time.

However, as they worked, they continued to exchange stories of their past exploits, some of which ended in disaster, but all of which served to bolster their infamy in this unforgiving, sun-scorched world. After what would likely have been considered ‘too long' by most metrics, the brigands gleefully set the building ablaze, the flames licking at the dry, wooden walls as they chuckled about the owner's terror when they had arrived.

"Did you see how he ran, tripping over his own feet?" Ifek guffawed, clutching her stomach as she laughed.

"Oh, he was so scared, he left his wife and kids behind!" added the Mahor, mimicking the owner's frantic escape. "Of course, considering they were already dead, I don't rightly blame him."

The inn, while remote, was known in the area for its ability to thrive despite it’s curious location smack dab in the middle of the desert. All who were in the know were aware that it was a popular stop for travelers due to the friendly demeanor of its proprietor, Haroun, and his wholesome family. Another reason for its (until very recently) fortunate staying power was that it was situated near the entrance of the Hallowed Ammit Queen’s Tomb. The dungeon was said to be the final resting place of a monstrous beast whose spirit had lent the crypt a generally creepy vibe and a load of treasure to be unearthed.

Ifek wiped her brow and grinned, staring at the inn as it slowly succumbed to the flames.

"I can't wait to finish this job, boys. I'm starving."

Mahor nodded, his lanky frame seeming to dance in the firelight.

"I could eat a whole roasted camel, I'm so hungry."

"You think they got any food left inside?" Foolish Farouk wondered.

Ifek raised an eyebrow.

"You want to eat something that's been in a burning building?"

"Well, maybe it's cooked by now," Foolish Farouk reasoned, his eyes gleaming with hope.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Ifek rolled her eyes.

"And maybe it's covered in ash and soot."

"But that adds flavor, doesn't it?" Mahor suggested, his voice quivering with excitement.

"Flavor?" Tikte scoffed. "You think charred wood and burnt straw taste good?"

Foolish Farouk scratched his mustache in thought.

"We could always scrape off the burnt bits."

"Scrape off? How exactly do you plan on doing that?" Ifek asked, folding her arms.

"With a knife, obviously," Mahor replied, as if it were the most sensible thing in the world.

Tikte shook his head, his piercings jingling.

"I can't believe I'm even part of this conversation. We should be looking for food elsewhere, not debating the culinary merits of burnt building scraps."

“Elsewhere?” Mahor asked. “We’re surrounded by desert, Tikte. You got a tavern in your pocket or something?”

“Lucky break, that—having a pocket,” Foolish Farouk said. “That crocodile ate mine.”

"Wait a second, what's that?" Mahor interrupted, pointing toward the horizon where a shadow was slowly emerging from the swirling sands.

The others fell silent, their laughter dying down as they turned their attention to the mysterious presence approaching their impromptu gathering.

As the shadow drew closer, the Sand Striders squinted against the glare of the sun, trying to make out the approaching figure until eventually, its shape became more clear. It appeared to them to be a towing figure—easily eight or nine feet tall—encased head to heel in heavy armor as they lumbered across the sands. This was, without a doubt, one of the largest people they’d ever seen—save for Tikte, who claimed he once beat a sand golem in a game of Hounds and Jackals during a night out drinking.

The huge armor itself was a masterwork of intricately detailed pieces and finely crafted metalwork; with gold, silver and bronze intermingling in beautiful cohabitation, with leather straps stretched across the broad torso that held one large satchel aloft on the figure’s back. The helmet, too, seemed hewn out of a solid block of electrum, their figure's face completely hidden behind its lustrous sheen. This might lead one to believe the wearer would have very little breath to take considering the only visible openings were the pair of dark slits where the eyes should be. The entire ensemble gave the impression of a walking war storm, and likely costing whatever smithy had forged it their month’s supply of precious metal.

Ifek let out a low whistle. Mahor released a surprised grunt. Tikte's mouth hung open. Foolish Farouk simply scratched his head, squinting at the armored giant.

"Is that a mirage?" the man with the mustache asked, shading his eyes.

Tikte rolled his eyes.

"No, you nitwit. It's a person."

"Looks like a big one," Mahor observed, "and all covered up like that? Must be hot as an embalmer’s workshop in there."

Ifek snorted.

"And probably smells just as bad."

The armored figure continued its slow, methodical approach, its heavy footfalls stirring up plumes of sand with each step. The Sand Striders fell silent, watching as the warrior drew closer and closer to their location.

“By the scaly tail of Sobek, my fellows—is that a warrior, or a walking pyramid?” quipped Mahor, eyeing the towering figure warily.

Foolish Farouk continued scratching his head, trying to recall some pertinent information from his vast store of stupidity.

"I remember something about, uh, giant scarabs being used for transport... Maybe this is some kind of upright insect?"

Ifek rolled her eyes.

"It's clearly a person, you blithering buffoon.

"Think he’s coming from the dungeon?" Tikte wondered aloud.

Mahor nodded.

"Could be. It's in that direction."

“Alone?” Foolish Farouk said, suddenly cautious.

“Of course he’s alone, you dummy,” Mahor scolded. “We’d be able to see the sands kicked up by anyone else who was with him.”

"Wonder if he has any loot on him?" Ifek said, rubbing her chin.

Tikte smiled, his eyes gleaming with greed.

"Likely. And if not…well, that armor looks expensive."

“Doesn't even look like he’s got a weapon on him,” Foolish Farouk offered.

“Beast that size might never have encountered one,” Ifek said. “Can’t be easy to find a deadly blade when your hands are as big as hippopotamus teeth.”

“Well, then,” Mahor said, grinning cruelly. “Let’s be good, helpful folk and show him what they look like.

Laughing, the group of brave ignoramuses drew their weapons as one, brandishing them brazenly in the blazing bask of the blistering barrens.

The armored figure continued its advance, gaining ground as it set itself directly in their path, seemingly unperturbed by the bandits' presence, nor their impressive display of threatening violence. This, it turned out, was precisely the thing that caused their fragile confidence to instantly weaken. The Sand Striders exchanged worried glances, their first—and ordinarily, only—plan falling apart in front of them.

"What do we do?" asked Mahor. “That’s never not worked before.”

“I dunno. Call the boss?” Tikte suggested.

The others nodded, and after a few moments of shouted summons, Ramose appeared. His eyes were bleary and his cheeks crisscrossed with pressure marks where he’d clearly fallen asleep face-down against something. He’d been grumpy at first, but after taking stock of the impressively worrisome view looming ahead, he quickly dropped the attitude for a more resolute demeanor.

“There’s only one of him, and…five of us,” he said scornfully, having paused to slowly count their number.

“Yeah, boss,” said Tikte. “But he’s huge."

Ramose scowled, undeterred.

"What’s that got to do with anything, you piss worm?! We've got the numbers, the cunning, and the experience."

“Yeah, and he doesn’t even have a weapon!” Foolish Farouk reminded the group.

The others exchanged uncertain glances but nodded, their faith in Ramose never failing to inspire them, even in the face of a silent, armored colossus.

The figure continued to approach, not breaking its steady pace, its every step sending tremors through the sandy ground. As it neared the group, Ramose stepped forward, waving his scimitar and shouting a warning.

"Hey, you! Big’un! Halt, or face the wrath of the Sand Striders!"

The armored warrior did not slow, did not speak, and did not even acknowledge Ramose's words, continuing its relentless march forward. The Sand Striders' collective courage began to waver one more.

Ramose tried again, raising his voice and adopting a more menacing tone.

"We've got you surrounded!” He began before pausing, trying to think up another threat.

“The weapons!” Foolish Farouk hissed.

Ramose nodded urgently at his subordinate and turned back quickly to the approaching figure.

“Yeah, and we’ve got weapons—and we ain’t afraid to use ‘em! Back off, or you'll...wish you had!"

Still, the armored figure made no sound, continuing to move forward without so much as a pause in their gait. The group's anxiety grew with each passing moment.

Finally, the armored warrior came to a stop some ten feet in front of the Sand Striders. They craned their necks upward to stare at the giant, their eyes wide with mostly awe and a little bit of fear. The figure towered above them, its face concealed by the gleaming helmet, and its body encased in the impenetrable layer of mixed metals.

"Who are you?" Ramose demanded, trying to maintain his composure despite the tremble in his voice. "And, uh…what do you want?"

The figure remained silent, not even the sound of its breathing penetrating the thick metal armor. The air between them was tense, each second feeling like an eternity as the Striders waited for a response that never came.

The massive armored figure slowly turned its head to gaze at the smoking inferno of the inn, seemingly taking in the destruction caused by the Sand Striders. The group, still attempting to muster their courage, watched the figure closely for any signs of reaction. Then, as though nothing had happened, the towering warrior turned back to face them once more, still as silent and impassive as ever.

Seizing upon this moment of tension, Ramose suddenly felt a surge of bravado course through him. He cleared his throat and took a step forward, his chest puffed out as he attempted to make himself seem larger and more intimidating.

"That’s right! You see that fire, you hulking heap of metal? That's the work of the Sand Striders," he boasted, gesturing to the burning inn. "It’s what we do to those who get in our way. We're a force to be reckoned with, and you'd best think twice before you tangle with the likes of us."

The armored figure, however, showed no signs of fear or even acknowledgement of Ramose's words. The air around them seemed to thicken with unease.

Foolish Farouk, true to his name, decided that this was the perfect time to butt in and attempt to bolster his leader's claims.

"We've burned loads of inns before," he added, nodding enthusiastically. "And worse than that! Temples, bath houses, orphanages—you name it!"

This, at last, seemed to incite a reaction from the towering warrior. The figure's helmet turned to regard Foolish Farouk briefly at his words, before shifting back to the whole group. Suddenly, the huge specter’s fists tightened at its sides, and the brigands could almost feel the waves of anger emanating from the armored behemoth. With deliberate movements, the figure slowly began undoing the straps of the large satchel on its back, allowing it to fall to the ground with a thunderous thump that sent ripples through the sand.

The group's confidence dissolved, each member feeling a prickle of fear crawl up their spine as they realized the potential consequences of their actions. All, that is, except for Ramose, who stubbornly clung to his bravado like a drowning man to a floating log.

"Ha! So, you're scared now, huh?" Ramose taunted, not noticing the nervous glances his crew exchanged. "What are you going to do? Cry to whatever massive mother birthed the likes of you?"

In response, the armored figure took a slow, deliberate step forward, its massive silhouette casting a long shadow over the Sand Striders. The desert sun seemed to dim as the group was engulfed in the shade of the colossal warrior, the air growing colder and heavier with each passing second.

—

The hulking figure marched forward, the satchel firmly reaffixed to their back, their armor now grimy with the helpful, spontaneously applied coat of crimson gore staining its former sheen. The world around them was eerily silent---especially now that the screams and wails had finally died down. As the individual continued on, there was only the sound of heavy footsteps and the crackling of the smoldering inn.

The armored figure paused for a moment, turning its gaze towards the pile of ash and smoke that was once the bustling respite. Their attention lingered, as if contemplating the depths of the flames as the illumination reflected against the surface of the semi-lustrous armor. It would be impossible to discern what thoughts swirled within the confines of the enigmatic individual’s helmet, but perhaps they were thinking of the inn and its lively patrons. Or maybe they remembered instead the kindly owner and his loving family who’d so generously provided him with a restful place in the camel stables to accommodate his ample frame just the night before?

After a moment's thought, the warrior turned their gaze forward once again, resuming the determined march. The setting sun painted the sky in shades of orange and red, casting a warm glow over the desert landscape. The column of dark smoke from the burning inn drifted lazily in front of the sinking sun, its inky tendrils weaving a grim tapestry against the vibrant backdrop.

As the armored figure continued on, the world around them seemed to hold its breath, as if acknowledging what had just transpired.

The desert could be an unforgiving place, full of harsh lessons and toil. And on this particular evening, one more of those harsh lessons had been meted out by one of the deadliest of its children.