Umber

It was twilight in the desert and the bloated red sun sagged low in the sky when a massive, hooded and heavily laden figure appeared at the top of a rocky outcropping. His cloak was dusty and worn, his thick boots showed signs of much patching. Someone watching would have thought him a fool as he crested the rise and stepped carelessly onto the scree below. Someone who thought carelessness its own reward would have laughed as the rocks gave way beneath him: a shout, a flail of his arms, and the man vanished in the avalanche. Someone who approached thinking to pick through the rubble in search of the dead man’s lost spoils would think again as the slope’s inherent instability became plain to even casual inspection. Perhaps he would uncap his waterskin and take a sip against the dryness of the settling dust. Then he would shake his head at the never-ending folly of men and look for a different victim to relieve of his water, his valuables, perhaps his life if the desert hadn’t done it for him.

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