The man continued to trudge through the sands, only being vaguely sure he was going in the right direction. To his surprise, the wind had started to grow sharper as he neared. It was the oddest thing, it did not stir the sand to move. But now along the sands, blades of wind would glide freely. The cloak protected the body and some of the legs, and the hood protected the face from the worst. But still, every now and then a blade would dance into a trajectory, and slide across the man’s face or his bare legs. Not enough to be called a gouge, but still enough to spawn a fine bleed. After time, he couldn’t even feel the wounds being inflicted.

Still, he endured and continued. It didn’t matter too much. He was willing, an ounce of pain for a sense of purpose. He wondered, how far would he pay? Surely not a limb, he was unsure if he could survive. But then he thought of the Reaper, being just a skull. And he thought of the Fairy, being half dead and still so vibrant.

He resolved himself. If need be, he was willing to pay a great price. He had already faced death, quite directly. If the worst were to come, then he’d accept her return. But for now, he went on.

As he went further along the wind became more sharp, and he felt as if he was going to test the limit of his resolve soon. Now even when the blades missed his flesh, they hit his cloak with a bang and caused a physical feedback that rattled him. The winds drummed against the sand, and in the distance an odd guttural sound could be heard. It caught the man’s attention for a moment, until it was replaced by another blade of wind.

Perhaps a stroke of fortune, maybe a simple inevitability of his travel, maybe the result of just good weather, the wind ceased forming its sharp blades. There were cuts all over his face, all over his lower legs, though miraculously the bottoms of his feet stayed safe, being protected by their movement in and out of the sand.

The blades of wind were replaced as he traveled further, this time by a sickly sweet song that danced on the wind. One that tempted his soul with rest, relaxation. It whistled, caressing his body in its rhythm. It seemed to vibrate among the deserts, but the cloak the man was wearing dulled its sound from his ears to an extent. Through this mumbling, he could hear something far, far more sinister.

It sounded like a torrent of screams, clamoring in a sick order. A sorrow traveled through the screams as they were forced to transform into the whistle of the sand. An attempted final warning before they were gone and consumed.

The man now felt something he was sure he had never felt so greatly in his entire life before. A bone chilling fear, one that threatened to overtake any sense of pace he had. His entire being had thought of kicking against the sand, and running in a demented way as far as he could to escape the sound.

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It was then he heard another sound, only through the grace of his muffled coat. This one not a scream, but perhaps infinitely worse for the psyche of the man who now felt more like a boy. His countenance grew heavily pale, and his pace picked up.

“Go…….. Away…… No….. Hope….. Here………”

And when the man thought that was it, he heard something in sickening detail. He thought it had occurred directly next to him, but his eyes had verified he was alone. Now he was running, his caution to the wind and one hand on his cloak's head, ensuring that it didn’t fall off, exposing his ears to the horrors of the sound with no filter.

“Good… luck…. “ To which the originator of the voice released a guttural scream, and a chanting of terrible sounds emanated from the same location. His scream was not one that became the sickly sweet whistles, but what he now understood as the source of the sickles of wind. A disgusting chant of roars and cheerings, as if mocking the original speaker. And then…

“It… Okay… if one gets away. There will be many more….” And another round of cheers and chants, though these are much more primal and deranged.

He was now sprinting, far faster than he ever thought possible. His body now ached with a soreness incomparable to anything before, and he was now more aware of the pain he felt from the previous cuts than ever. Still, the sound had grown quieter and quieter as he sped, and eventually, after a long while of running, and then jogging, and then walking, and then panting, he heard nothing for a long enough time he felt comfortable sitting, trying to recover from the experience.

Although he had come face to face with the Reaper before, this was something much more terrifying. He was certain his death would not have involved as much grace, or dignity. And the fear in whoever beckoned him away, he could feel in his very soul that there was something wrong about the place. Something perhaps, that not even the black desert understood. And he thought for a moment, realizing the black sands now moved with the wind. And he thought back, on how the sand had covered the Coward’s body with prodigious speed. And he realized the place he had been was not right, not right at all.

After a while, he returned to his feet. The journey ahead was still long. He ran his hand against his face, and realized with a silent comfort that his wounds had already begun to heal. A trepidation had set into his advancement into the sands, and with new respect he treated the path ahead him with acknowledgment of the potential dangers within.

Although the wounds would heal for the most part without blemish, the man would have a noticeable scar at the heels of both his feet. It seemed that the wind had focused on that area and caused a deeper wound than the others. This made the man think, and the conclusion filled him with dread.

Out he continued into the sands, where for the first time he hoped of what he wouldn’t see.

The canyon was close, and so he walked. His crown hung loosely, his cloak still mostly pristine white, but a splash of blood lies along the front. And the right side was caked with black sand that refused to leave. His figure had changed, but he still went on.