Vaile continued to run until he hit the sand that had become the effective border between the recently retaken ruin of a village and the lands that had been claimed by the Desert/Sand Elves. Once he reached said mass of sand, he slowed his movement through the sunbaked desert to a fraction of what it once was. After all, trying to run in sand was best left to those best suited to the task, and his human feet would just sink ever deeper with every thunderous footfall that he leveled against the terrain.

He was in the business of reaching and destroying the object that was jamming Zahra’s power and influence, not kicking up huge quantities of sediment as he went, revealing his position and his intent to anyone with a lick of sense. And it was due to this that his normally absurd speed became what to him was a slow crawl across the dunes.

By the time he eventually set his eyes upon the encampment of the invading ‘Sand People’, the day had completely given way to night and the stars and moon hung overhead, giving the dark an almost otherworldly feel to the man who, on Earth, had never seen a night sky that was not dulled by the mass of lights from all of civilization. Even the moon looked bigger, brighter and more beautiful, but Vaile caught himself before fully giving in and wasting time to appreciate nature. He had a job that he had set himself to, and wasting time looking at the brilliant skybox was not a vital part of it.

He surveyed the camp before him from his vantage point on the top of a dune more than nine eighths of a kilometer away, well out of sight and out of range of the pitifully under-leveled idiots’ ability to even notice him. He had noticed that the overall level of most members of the races were dismal compared to what he felt they should have been, but it eventually dawned on him why that was the case. Unless you had a whole lot of luck or an absurd amount of money/resources, you could only live once.

These people were, ultimately, leveled far, far higher compared to those who were the civilians. After all, when your base stats are lower than that of most foes, simply surviving long enough to get to level 30 was a huge achievement in and of itself. These people didn’t have the near infinite continues of a Player, and if they died that was it, there was no revival procedure in place at all for them.

It almost made Vaile feel bad for killing them and ruining their nations.

Almost, but not quite.

Vaile didn’t have the time or patience to care much for those who sought to do wrong by him and his, so he brushed his insignificantly miniscule sense of admiration for their tenacity aside and got to work.

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…

Makeb of the Red Sands stood outside one of the entrances to the camp, his eyes peering into the darkness just beyond the light of the lit torches that gave him a bit more visibility during the cold and bitter time he was forced to stand watch in. He had been at this post for quite a while now, and he was still waiting for one of two things to happen, either of which would be a reason for him to celebrate. He was also here as a lookout in case there was an attack, but that was not one of the two main reasons he was here. His objectives, as given to him by his Tribal Chief, were to hold position until either the warband sent to scour the nearest enemy village returned or until he was relieved of his post at word of the same Chief that placed him here.

He had been here at this same spot for over 12 hours, with only the occasional meal and bathroom break allowing him to move from his post. At least he had been given some shade and a copious amount of water; if not for that he likely would have keeled over due to heat exhaustion. His kind were rather resistant to the heat and lack of food and drink that their home continuously treated them to, but they were not immune to heat, hunger, thirst and exhaustion. Thus, he was nearly about to nod off into sleep when he heard the sound of a footstep in the sand in front of him.

Immediately, his eyes opened wide and he leapt to his feet, his spear at the ready, but there was not a soul in sight. Just as he was about to chastise himself for his overactive imagination, he swore he could hear a second footstep in the sand, this time just a few yards to his right. He wheeled around, but once again there was nobody there. This convinced him that either one of two things were going on. Either he was hearing the footsteps of an enemy agent, or he was so damn tired that his brain was playing tricks on him.

He waited a bit longer, fully exposing his long and pointed hears to the world around him and strained his senses to their limit. Ten seconds passed, then thirty, then a minute. The sound he had heard did not repeat itself, unless of course it had fully passed by him and into the camp, at which point it would be impossible to track unless everyone inside stayed perfectly still and made no noise.

Makeb of the Red Sands sighed and looked over to the board that was behind his spot. The schedule written on it clearly stated that he should have been relieved five hours ago, but not a soul had come up to do so. At best they had dropped off some food and water, but nothing else. He looked back from the board to the open entrance that he was guarding and then stabbed his spear into the ground.

“You know what? It’s not my fucking problem anymore.”

With that, the guard sat down in his seat and decided to take the train to Sleepytime Junction, leaving Vaile to steal away through the camp, dodging bodies as he made his way deeper into the gathering of nomadic peoples and towards the large and completely foreign-looking object that was placed upon a mobile platform in the center of the base.