Life had no meaning but the effort etched into one's bones. To assume there was a method to the madness was a pointless struggle.

A struggle he’d begrudgingly come to terms with, envious of those around him blissfully unaware of their ephemeral existences.

Jad Salazar knew this after peeking behind the curtain. After being bestowed this eldritch knowledge by his most beloved friend.

After pleading to his former god for answers and finding only an unmoving, unfeeling stone in its stead.

If those chosen by the stone were deemed lesser beings worthy of interaction, Salazar and the crew of the U.S.S. Calypso were naught but gnats on the back of a labyrinthine obsidian god. They were equal to the embers that burned in the chest of those eager eyed youths looking to survive and escape this wretched place.

Kindling to the fire. The ever-present war among entities without purpose. Or an original purpose now as fleeting and dusted as the shaved rusted blades that composed each granule of sand in his current home.

What a deplorable existence.

Salazar spat venom onto the sands below, keeping his ragged duster and shawl tight to his calcified exterior, slowly moving through the shifting storm.

Wrapped in a bundled sack were his spoils; the bones of those fundamentalists acolytes that chose to throw a new yoke over their necks in the name of the cryptic Adjudicator.

The Great Judge. Compiler of Edicts. Ruler of the Rusted Sands.

Another half-dead god with just enough power to shirk off the influence of the almighty mother beyond the skies.

If he had any blood to boil, he’d be steaming. He defaulted to a huff and a grimace, face long since weathered and shaved away by the elements and his experimentation to a semi-skulled visage of what once was human.

What little skin he had left clung tight to his jaws, keeping the hardened teeth exposed in a permanent grin.

Despite his best efforts to portray the contrary.

Salazar stopped in his tracks.

One’s close.

He could feel the sensation in the back of his head. A compulsion. A command.

AN EDICT.

With his converted physiology came the shedding of old problems for new ones. Of the potential races he could convert himself into, this one had the longest leash by which he could slip past.

The throbbing sensation in his head grew more pronounced as he surveyed the obscured surroundings for a particular object. His mechanical eyes whirred, bolstered optics salvaged from the corpses of dead machines operating at max capacity to parse out the whirling sands from a stationary black spike.

He found it then. A tower of jagged iron half buried by the sands. A transmitter relaying the latest edict by the incoherent god of the land.

A necessary evil to his prolonged existence.

Jad Salazar unsheathed the [Cloud Killer] from his scabbard, careful to hide his prized possession from the elements.

He had gone through so much to keep it safe, after all.

While his mind fought off the overwhelming tide of the eldritch abominations reality altering mandate, Salazar focused on the weapon in his hand.

The [Cloud Killer] crackled to life, the electric hum of a storm titan’s kiss coursing through the cerulean blade. A new spire would be erected in the plains, but that was their struggle to bear.

His spite refused to let him lie down and rot.

Past actions only served to reinforce his resolve, remaining on the planet for two complete filters.

Such was the cruelty of the universe.

“Embrace death, Acolyte. Rest amidst the sands and sleep.” A final prayer was offered to the spinal soul trapped in the jagged sarcophagus.

He swung his blade.

The sand parted all around him for a second with the climax of his horizontal slash, rust shavings crackling with the blue lightning trapped in his blade.

Whatever edict had been provided to the Bon-Maru, Salazar would mercifully remain ignorant to it.

He was a Heretic and his life was his own.

“Isn’t that right?” He whispered in the direction of his prized possession.

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No response.

It seemed that his friend was uninterested in engaging with him today, as well.

No matter.

The boons of a chosen could still be used whether they cooperated with him or not.

Companionship would come when they grew tired of their madness and solitude.

---

At the southern edge of the Rusted Plains, where the grand plateau met the swamps' desiccated borders, were an outcropping of natural anthills.

Each tower was approximately measured in size and space to the mega-cities of old. Each tower shared the same fate as those hollow monuments, their owners long since gone, their corpses grounded up to iron dust.

Salazar assumed that their carapace was composed of metals due to the rich diet of ores and salvage on the planet, which would explain the rusted filings all around the him, but frankly he didn’t want to believe his malevolent creators would do such a thing as create a hellscape who’s origins could be traced back to the extinction of an organized and sapient species.

His body was bereft of melancholy.

Only anger remained, its intensity shifting as quickly as the sands ebbed and flowed throughout the land.

Salazar followed the markings to their latest abode. He freed himself of the shawl, allowing the top of his gleaming alabaster skull to breathe in the cool air.

His steps echoed through the grand carved tunnels until he came to a mechanical structure embedded in the rock.

A safe door. Similar in design to the safes of countless lockboxes strewn across the planet.

Salazar cleared his throat of sand.

“We who are pinned by the earth and sky, rejoice. Your king has returned with the spoils of war.” Salazar proclaimed in his practiced ritual.

“We who have evaded the eyes of the gods, rejoice. Welcome home, King Salazar.” The intercom buzzed.

The safe door heaved itself slightly ajar, allowing the thin man to walk inside without issue.

The interior of their compound was a cozy, cable-webbed abode. It was warm and slightly humid, with the sandstone walls lined from end to end with runic engravings.

Their community of heretics was small. The process of converting a scavenger to a Bon-Maru was equal parts luck and mental fortitude. He’d since allowed the others to contend with the management of the community.

As king, it was not his place to perform the work of the others. They were there to delegate the duties he should not sully his hands with.

“King Salazar.” A gnarled husk of a woman bowed, white-brown hair woven in a tight segmented ponytail with copper rings. “Welcome home.”

He raised his hand.

“Cease with your performance, Sveta. It is beneath your station.” Salazar replied.

This was another ritual among many. Immortals could not function without routine.

Without a baseline for normalcy by which insanity could be compared to.

“I cannot do so, my liege. You and I both know what it means when we share moments in public.” Sveta smiled deviously before turning her attention to the dragged bag. “I see you’ve come back with more bones?”

The good humor in him died upon its mention.

“Dejected pieces to be cast in the irons for their use.” He flung the bag to the ground, the tight knot on its top keeping the contents from spilling out on the floor.

“Well if your hunt went as well as that, then I guess I needn’t bother you with todays events.” Sveta shrugged.

Salazar rolled his eyes, “Did we experience another worm in the food stores? Was the door allowed open in my absence to allow the influence of the planet to infect a fellow heretic and subsume them into a murderous frenzy?”

Another ritual. Another task cataloged in the annals of infinity.

Sveta shook her head.

“No, my liege. We experienced something new.”

He stopped.

A new cycle?

To add spice to his life, he even felt the tendrils of his beloved friend crawl up his spine in curiosity and jubilation.

It appeared that they were both mad, clinging to hope as they had after all these years.

“Our scout went down to the border to inspect the monitoring compound. There are networks coming to life all across the planet. The world is alive once more.” Sveta answered.

“Did the facility in the valley come online?” A spark of fear, succulent its taste, rose within him for the first time in eons.

Sveta, mercifully, shook her head, “Operational but dormant. As we left it.”

“Then what other compounds are coming online?”

Sveta’s smile grew wide, “The signals were faint but a few in the Catacombs started to come back online. A number in the Coral Groves also came to but whoever is leading their outposts is running under a secure line.”

“And what about the Mire?”

“Nothing in the Mire that we could gain access to is operational but wouldn’t you know it, the prime is up and running again.”

Sensations long settled into the depths of his bones rose to greet him like old friends.

Surprise. Elation. Sorrow. Curiosity. Righteous indignation.

They coursed through him as an elixir of life.

“And their line. It is open. Their radar station remains public for others to patch in.”

Her line of statements had led him to a conclusion he found agreeable. His old friend would be equally interested in returning to the remnants of their former home. To walk through its refurbished corridors and wallow in the memories.

But first, he would assess the mettle of their new arrivals. The dawn of a new cycle had risen and with it came the presence of another chosen.

Another pawn on the board.

If their position was not to his liking…

Well, three truly is company on long treks through the desert sands.