And finally he emerged from the imprisoning grains.
He forced the grit from his mouth, his nostrils. Rubbing
carefully he cleared his eyelids, blinked slowly to regain once
more his sight. His heard a continuous roar and he looked around
to find the source. Then he realized it came from within him. He
could hear no external sound! Both ears were plugged with grit,
with desert silt and sand!
He found that, ears plugged, his sense of balance was lacking.
With each step he wobbled from side to side, both from lack of
balance and from the loose particles beneath his feet.
He could see now, though dimly. His eyes burned and teared. If
he only had water to wash his eyes.
And his mouth! Dry, filled with the taste of earth and silt and
minute particles of rock. And the rising wind was driving even
more grit into his face, into his lungs. He turned his back to
the wind, gazed at the bleak landscape of Regulus' Lair.
For the most part there was nought to see but bare desert
waste. And yet, dotted here and yon, remains of those who had
gone before. A skull, whitened by the windblown grit. The rib
cage, each bone in place, lying half buried at the base of a
dune. And the horizon darkening as the wind's intensity mounted.
Though he could hear nothing the felt the driven grains
striking even through his clothes. And dust devils rose from the
desert floor, danced their dance, and faded in the distance. The
sun was blotted out as the gusting wind lifted silt and sand and
dust into the sky.
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