The sun was once again high in the sky, beating proudly its heat upon the man and his reptilian follower, seemingly unknowing of its tired fate only eight or so hours from this point. The man continued relentlessly, unfazed by the terrible heat. His mouth was dry and his stomach empty, but the man couldn't stop now. He was well on his way. The gila didn't mind; he ate no more than five times in a year. Despite earlier doubts, he was now convinced that these mammals took the same schedule. He was however, growing very tired, as the quickened pace he needed to keep up with the man was far faster than a normal gila will move. He was used to conserving his energy, what little he had, and slinking slowly across the warm sand. The man rejuvenated his energy though, and he was surprised he could keep up with him as long as he had. The gila pushed these thoughts from his mind and focused on the trail. It always came back to the trail. Every thought or doubt either of the two travelers had was always subdued by thoughts of the trail. It must have been important for that reason.
As the sun hit its highest point in the sky, the man thought he heard a whinny. He stopped and looked around him. Nothing but sand surrounded him. Soon though, he heard the muted tapping of hooves running through sand. He turned quickly and no sooner did his head reach around his shoulder than a horse of pure white flew directly past his face. Startled, the man stumbled back and the rider of the horse pulled back his reins and turned so the broad side of the milky horse faced the man. The horse trotted in place as the man observed the apparition in front of him. The rider wore a white robe and held the reins in his right hand. In the same hand was a longbow and atop his head, a crown. The man sported a thick red beard and had a very viking appearance, despite his attire. The rider lifted his huge left hand and pointed past the man, into the distance behind him. The man turned and seeing nothing, returned his gaze upon the rider and his horse. But the horseman had fled, and it was so far in the distance, it was as if he had never stopped to greet the man. Was he greeting him? The man turned once again to the scene behind him, but this time he did see something. A second horse was arriving quickly, its rider riding low, dragging something across the sands. This horse was a beautiful brown, one could almost mistake it for a burnt red color. The rider wore a brilliant scarlet garment that ran up over his head and covered his face. He sped by the man who saw now that he was dragging a large broadsword, marking his trail behind him. The rider never stopped as the first did, only continued pursuit of the white horse, though the man doubted he would ever catch him.
The man looked behind him again, to be sure another ghost (at this point he very much doubted the riders' actual existence) wasn't following. He brushed off his suit once more, returned to his original position, directly in line with his previous footprints, and stepped forward once more. Strange, he thought, the only two men I've seen since the journey began and neither of them bothered to ask my business in the desert. He was, in fact, ill prepared for a journey through the desert, and perhaps this was the first time he noticed. Both of the riders wore more appropriate garb for a trip in the desert, and they both had better modes of transport. The man pondered this thought for a moment but, not able to find a logical answer, determined that they were simply ghosts, with no real minds of their own. There had probably been an epic battle here centuries ago, and the two riders were mere memories to the aging sands.
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