The sorcerer stopped. It began to rain. The dry desert land, which was all that surrounded him, soaked up the rain and became moist at last. It had been years since it had received proper rain. The Usgar was hotter and drier than Zett’yrii, which was the exact opposite of Briam in its climate.

The sun was removed as a sea of clouds took to the skies, basking everything in an endless grey light, turning the yellow desert into something almost ethereal in the eyes of the sorcerer.

The sorcerer walked and walked. He had put considerable distance between himself and The Priest. No longer could he see even the vaguest figure in the distance. Only he was there. He walked a roughly beaten path and came to a crossing with a sign which read:

North — New Briam Station

East — Old Briam Station

West — Domal Town

The sorcerer sat down on the cold desert ground. He waited, and he waited. Before he knew it, night arrived. And, with the night, came a stranger from the east. They approached the sorcerer with a swift gait and dragged a wood brown ice chest behind them. They stopped, let down the handle of the ice chest, and sat parallel to the sorcerer.

“Where’d you be heading?” Asked the stranger.

“North.”

The stranger spoke of the hunt he had and how he came from the old Briam train station but the sorcerer was deaf to it all. The sorcerer stared at the ground. His face and body were completely hidden by his black cloak. His wicked hand, yellow and misshapen, came forth from within his cloak. It was marred with the yellow sign—the symbol of sulfur, of Mas’rou. The sorcerer’s magics were no trick or beckoning of man. The singular thought of flame came to his mind, and he made odd types of sigils and runes with his hand. His hand danced in front of the stranger who sat there, stuck in a hypnotic gaze by the movements of the sorcerer. The sorcerer’s hand shot up as a yellow, sulfuric flame rose from the ground. Now, his hand slowly retreated into the dark recesses of his cloak.

“How’d you do that?” Asked the stranger. “Are you. . . one of those Zettish magicians?”

The sorcerer gave no response. He was still and stared only at the flame on the ground.

“Well then. . .” said the stranger as he opened up his ice chest and reached inside, pulling out two sealed packages with thick cut steaks inside. “Let me repay you for letting me rest at your fire.”

The sorcerer turned to the stranger, then back to the fire. The stranger set down a folded pack on his back and retrieved a skillet from it. He placed it over the fire, waited a minute for it to heat, then placed both his steaks into it. They began to sizzle. The scent of meat cooking in its own grease made the stranger salivate. The sorcerer was entirely numb to it all. The stranger reached into his folded package, taking out two thin metal plates with rubber edges as well as a pair of tongs. He flipped the steaks, letting them cook and acquire a crust just like the first side for a few minutes. Then, he grabbed them with the tongs and rested one on each plate, setting one by the sorcerer and his own on his lap. He reached into his folded package for the last time, taking out two sets of utensils. He placed one set on the sorcerer’s plate, who, at this point, had still not moved. The stranger cut into his own steak. He sliced off a chunk. Pink juices leaked out onto the plate. He grinned.

“A perfect medium rare,” said the stranger before he tore up his steak, tender as it was. “Not gonna touch yours?”

The sorcerer gave no response. He reached over to the stranger and marked him on the forehead with his ring finger.

“At peace with ye now. This night might require much from your soul,” said the sorcerer as he stood up.

Without setting his plate aside, the stranger got up from his spot, spilling his half-eaten steak and its juices onto his jeans and the dry desert ground which soaked up the juices like a beige sponge. He crawled into the flame and let it consume him. His heartbeat quickened. His movements slowed. He lay on top of the fire. Soon, his skin had been completely taken by it. He could no longer see. He had placed his body within the ultimate pain, but he felt at peace simultaneously. He had given his soul to the night, to the sorcerer.

The sorcerer let the flame kindle and burn the man’s body to an ashy mound before extinguishing it with the wave of his hand. He kneeled down and reached into the center of the mound, making a divot in it with his index finger. A white mist rose from the new hole and the sorcerer wafted it up towards himself, seized it with his other hand, and tucked it into his cloak. He took nourishment from the mist. The soul was something only he, only the gods themselves, could ever have a hope of understanding. It was the spirituality of man that he feasted on like a rabid dog, a parasite of sorts, on the world. Burn and consume. That was all he knew to do. And so he wandered—wandered off East—to the old Briam station.

The Priest dreamed a series of images that flashed through his skull and mind before disappearing into the back of his head. The yellow sign—the thing that scarred his back—he remembered its linework in fine detail. He remembered how it felt to have his back whipped with all manner of blade and leather before having the yellow sign seared into it as if he were a convict for merely being born, for that was exactly why he received the marking. The memories of his parents whose names he had long forgotten brought a cold pain to him. He thought himself immune to pain. Perhaps in the waking world his assumption was true, but no one, not even The Priest, was safe from their own mind. The mind and ego consumed men like The Priest.

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The Priest’s mind was taken to a new dreamful set—a desert compound, vaguely between the borders of Zett’yrii and the no-man’s-land where they and the Briam warred for over two decades. The Priest recollected in all manner the cruel, savage practices his guardians partook in, and, most importantly, the gold and yellow they adorned themselves with along with those other men who had dedicated their lives to the cultish worship of sulfur which The Priest detested. Only, one day, The Priest no longer had to witness the afflictions and cruelties of these men and women, all now children, of sulfur—of Mas’rou. His eyes had been taken from his head before his brother—the sorcerer—screamed and wailed and cried as they seared his flesh with a rod dipped in the flames of hate their guardians and the children of sulfur had stoked, all in the name of greatness. He had forgotten how much time passed since his eyes were taken, only that one day, he did manage to see. Soldiers of Briam in their violent march stormed the compound, he remembered, and one man, their doctor, gave The Priest eyes. The Doctor blessed The Priest, and so The Doctor had become a figment of the true god Wistraff Himself, for reality was only something perceived by those who beheld it and to behold, one needed eyes. The Doctor was the giver of eyes, and The Priest accepted him as a messenger of Wistraff, of war and glory and all things to come from Him as He was the one who governed such things.

And so The Priest awoke, sweating, despite the sun having yet to rise and the cool desert air brushing against his skin. Only, now hot, the cool air afflicted him with the sensation of pins being inserted into the surface of his body. It didn’t hurt, but The Priest felt on edge. He grabbed his Babneux 33 and gripped it, hugging it tight as if it were a comforter. His weapon was the only thing he entrusted his vulnerabilities to. The brothels of Zett’yrii and the clubs littered throughout the dirty streets of Briam’s inner cities attracted him little despite comfort being their purpose. Or rather, he felt no lust of any kind for anything, having purged the feeling from himself so as to keep his mind sacred. So, there was no comfort to be gained from love for him. Only the trust he placed in the reliability of his rifle could thus provide him the comfort he so desired.

The Priest sat there now with his eyes wide yet unaware of The Outlaw, she continuing to stalk him through the night with great interest while he now contemplated his sins. Among the crimes any man could commit, Wistraff, the fair god, gave all respite in that they would be free of His judgement when their hands moved to commit the great act of war. For, Wistraff was not a perfect man, so the holy texts ascribed him. War was the prelude to Prosperity, and the world was Prosperity and humanity was War—an everlasting war encompassed by living beings who fought and battled until the bitter end to survive the hell they were planted on, and, even greater, the hells they forced onto others. This was the greatest lesson The Priest had taken from the holy texts. It was his north star in the pitch blackness of the world, which he was still blind to even after being given eyes.

The Outlaw, quiet as she was, approached The Priest from his side and reached for his gun.

The Priest gave no reaction save for five words: “I know who you are.”

The Outlaw paused. For the first time, The Priest had caught her by surprise. Ever since she knew him, for as long as The Priest knew her, he had never once done a thing to catch her off guard. Yet now, she was shocked that he even remembered her.

“And who am I?” The Outlaw asked in a genuine tone.

“Nobody.”

“You’re nobody too.”

“I know.”

“Is that why you won’t kill me? Why you didn’t kill me all those years ago?” She began to speak in a playful tone. “The world’s indifferent to people like us. Live or die, what we do doesn’t matter. Steal or kill, the world’s all the same. Just as long as nobody’s stopping you, none of it matters, right?”

“Wrong. If none of it matters, then why does god exist?”

“You’re not trying to say he gives things meaning just by the virtue of them existing, right?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Then, priest, you’re a sinner. A dirty little sinner like me. You’re going to hell when you die. Isn’t that just the worst?”

“I know. Heaven was always something out of reach for me. I’ve no reason to pursue it. But, that doesn’t mean I’ve no reason to pursue good.”

“Pursue whatever you want, whatever you like,” she said, almost impatiently. “Kill whoever, steal whatever, do whatever. You know what we did together all that time ago. It’s still fresh in your mind, isn’t it?”

The Priest remained silent as The Outlaw leaned in closer to his ear. There, she whispered terrible secrets, only unknown by The Priest beforehand by his own admittance, and, lying, that he was ignorant to the crimes. As the man that was there for the crime, who committed the crime, he had to detach himself from it. No longer could he be a petty man. He had to be a concept, a tool of divinity and justice that pursued the greatest justice of all—saving man. The Outlaw was entirely aware of his ideal self and punished him further with her words.

The Outlaw whispered one final secret to The Priest. “God does not love you,” and his skin went cold.

“I know this. Wistraff loves all his creations, but only if they do not walk the unjust path. We can’t blame him for that. If a father tells his child to not walk the path of evil, the path created not by him but by the devil in the shadows that waits for the child to pick up its feet, and the child still walks that path, he’s every right to be upset.”

“But they’re just a child. They don’t know any better.”

“Of course they do. You’re a child. I am too. All of humanity is his child. We know nothing of this world except that which he has imparted onto us and allowed us to discover, save for sin. That is the work of sulfur, of Mas’rou. We need no guidance to know unjust death delivered by human hands is the greatest sin of all.”

“So who’s the one who decided what justice is? You? Or is it god? You seem to love following the path he’s laid out for you.”

“The world is the path. All we do is choose what route to take in the fork in the path. I’ve already chosen. You should too, if you still wish to save yourself.”

“No thanks,” said The Outlaw. “Life’s too short to worry about what’s just and unjust. Let’s just dance however we please wherever we please. It’s a pleasure all the same.”

The Priest got up from his spot and dusted himself off. The sun had not risen above the dark blue meridian that was the gradually brightening sky of the new morning. He stepped back onto the rough path and, when he reached the triple fork in the road where the choice was to make it to the old or new Briam station or to Domal, he chose Domal and walked westward with The Outlaw following closely behind.