“People think of dying as something to fear. Death is a boring, bureaucratic matter. Just heaps of damned paperwork.” – Journal of Maron
Boros let out a bellowing yawn, stretching his trunk-like limbs in every direction, like a big, fat, ugly baby. The cloudless ceiling was light blue, while the desert looked like a field of sunflowers when he squinted his eyes. He took a deep, deep breath, filling his entire chest with fresh, hot morning desert air. Lazily, he grabbed a glance of the campsite, which was on another dune than where he’d slept. Boros liked sleeping alone, it was peaceful, and he liked sleeping late and waking up on his own time. This would’ve been utterly impossible with soldiers around who woke up early out of habit and routine. He reached for his enormous bag, his breakfast was in there somewhere. While stuffing his bearded face with juicy bread and a leather pouch of water, his curiosity was piqued. Smoke was rising from the camp, the puffs too large to come from a casual campfire. While feasting on his food and drink, his back resting on a thick blanket, contemplating what might’ve been going on, the area where the smoke rose from expanded. An entire patch of the desert was being burned black.
Do not read. this is ultra super early draft. everything subject to change.
