I GOT A TENDENCY TO SELF-DESTRUCT,
& A SOFT SPOT FOR THE FILTH.
Above him, the sun is an unwavering presence.
It beats upon him with crippling heat that leaves streaks of sweat upon his dark hide, his tangled mane a heavy weight against his neck, and yet the man doesn’t move from where he stands. His sides move every so often, the imperceptible inhale and exhale of a life still lived, the skin tightening against the ribs that were glaringly obvious; he looks as though he might fall over at the next gust of wind, and yet, like he has not moved for centuries with the dust that collects and dulls his coat to a matte finish.
From his vantage point, he can see much of the desert unfolding before him -- the Court that rose up suddenly from the never-ending dunes, cloaked in a heat-haze in the distance; the Oasis, a promising daydream to the weary traveler; and of course, the treacherous slopes that led up into the canyon walls where he made his home.
He sees the pair likely long before they see him, and it prompts him into sudden movement, a long, swinging stride that eats the sand beneath him, that carries him on a trajectory meant to intercede, to impact and collide with theirs, and he bares his teeth in a grim smile as he does so.
“You seem lost, child.” It is blunt, snapped out as he halts abruptly before them, little consideration given to the large bear that tagged at her heels except for the briefest of glances. “Little girls made of ice don’t belong in a desert.”
