PRELUDE

"My mission in life is not merely to survive, but to thrive; and to do so with some passion, some compassion, some humor, and some style." - Maya Angelou

It was a hot and arid day. The sand beneath coarse and the sun above scorching. On and on the desolate landscape went, barren of all but dead dirt and rocks for miles in every direction. There was not a cloud in the sky to mar its light blue color, nor was a single blade of grass in the ground to cover its reddish hue. The locale was a near perfect description of hell on Earth.

And a suitable place for him to suffer an agonizingly slow demise.

How he arrived in this godforsaken land, he couldn't recall. What he did remember was suffering a nasty injury to the leg, and how said wound was responsible for the bloody and painful state his limb was currently in. The circumstances surrounding the occurrence of his injury, however, were foggy and muddled in his memory. Perhaps it was the blood loss. Perhaps it was whatever event that had led him to this wasteland. Whatever the case may have been, it changed nothing. He was still isolated in the middle of the desert. He was still lying in a small puddle of his own blood. He was still going to die.

The world began to lose its color soon enough. The pain of his lifeforce leaving him eventually faded away. Moments before his drop into unconsciousness, he chose to embrace the bliss of his body's cold numbness. At least he could sleep and die within the painless fantasies of his dreams.

The figure that approached on horseback was never seen.