text: A small lizard sluggishly scurried from a dead bush to beneath the floorboards of the stairs of an old rusted saloon. The heavy footsteps sounded like booming quakes to the reptile's ears. Its sand-colored body sank in with the ground around it acting as a makeshift shield against the eyes of the large predator. The lizard began to slow in its march to the stairs. Finally, its overheated body stopped completely, and the predator closed in. The lizard desperately tried to carry itself away, but the harsh sting of the sand beneath it and the boiling glow of the sun overhead stopped it in its tracks. The predator towered over the feeble reptile and crouched down, no doubt preparing to lap up its prey. A soft trickle of water droplets splattered on the reptile's back and spread across its body. It lifted itself up and gave a quick curious glance to its savior before retreating beneath the stairs. The man watched it hideaway through the eyeholes of a polished brown wooden mask. The cloaked figure of the man strode into the pub with a large blade in a glossy black sheath adorned with gold letters spelling Zephyr at his side. Some of the people in the bar gave a satisfied look to the blade, while others were too caught up in their stupor to give him a thought. The bartender studied the man with a mournful look. He took a seat in front of the bartender and pulled out his now-empty flask. "If you wouldn't mind," he said in a dry velvety voice. The bartender simply nodded and pulled out a large dusty container of water and began to pour. "Care to share your business here?" The bartender asked as the flask was nearly full. The man looked up at the bartender preparing to answer. The light of the pub shone through revealing the man's hazel eyes for a split second. "Ahh come on Brax, ain't it obvious? he's killed a Zephyra and put him in that blade, and now he's here to kill more," A large man said forcing his way into the conversation. "There are Zephyra here?" The cloaked man asked, a hint of worry muffled by the dominating tone of apathy in the man's voice. "Not here, but further in the Madlands there's a whole gang of 'em," The large man said with a devious grin. The cloaked man quietly considered the new information, looking down at the crusted wood. "Can I ask how you killed 'em?" The large man asked in a hushed tone leaning forward to the cloaked man. The cloaked figure let out a disappointed sigh, and in one motion he raised his back up, and in another, turned his head over to the large man as if to say, did you really just ask me that? "Ok sensitive subject, I get it," The large man continued. "So how's about you tell us how you got his soul in that there sword instead," He said with a grin that was a beating away from toothless. The cloaked man's concentrated gaze on him fell slowly into an almost shameful look at the floor. He snatched up his flask and stood up, heading for the door. "You can just never take a hint huh Groll," Brax the bartender spoke. As the cloaked man passed the bottom step and began his trek further into the Madlands, he heard the sturdy doors burst open quickly behind him and turned his head to look. "Hold up now!" The bartender pleaded racing to catch up to the man. "Listen, I know they're mutants but the Zephyras out there are good people," Brax cried. The cloaked man gave no response, staring at him with an expressionless wooden glare. "Just don't kill 'em, not all of 'em deserve to become a Zephyr like that," He begged, eyeing the black sheath on the cloaked man's waist. He stood with his robes gently fluttering at the whims of the wind, the light badge color perfectly reflecting the tone of the sand around him. "You asked about my business here," the robed man said. The bartender's eyes narrowed in confusion. The cloaked man unsheathed his zephyr blade revealing a long, thin silver blade with a slight reddish hue to it. "This used to be a good friend of mine," he said softly and sorrowfully, holding up the blade's hilt to the bartender. "He said he wanted to be buried in his homeland, so now I'm here," The man finished. Brax reached out and held the hilt of the blade for a moment. "So you ain't gonna kill none of 'em?" Brax asked. "As long as they don't try to kill me," He retorted. The bartender's eyes softened. He handed the blade back to its owner who promptly sheathed it. "May I ask your name?" The bartender beckoned. "Call me Shepherd," the man said with a smile in his voice. He turned away towards the Madlands readying himself for the journey ahead. The Madlands were just as described, endless deserts of quicksand that threatened to swallow up any who stood in one spot for too long. Towering dunes would rise up and crash into themselves as the roaring winds would throw gargantuan tufts of sand and plunge them back down. Truly you would have to be mad to want to be mad to reside here; either mad or a Zephyra. The man who called himself Shepherd wafted through the sandy blizzard that was the Madlands, needing to extremely careful not to leave his feet in one place for too long. Every now and then when a particularly powerful gust of wind would shoot out at him he would have to unsheathe his zephyr blade and counter with a lashing flurry of wind himself. He looked down to his wrist holding the hilt of the blade and chose to leave it unsheathed, using its elemental power to condense to sand beneath him and make fit to traverse. He knew it wouldn't be long now, he was already deep in the Madlands and soon they would sense his blade and come for him if they weren't already. He had survived endless battles with his friend but now, looking down at what was left of him Shepherd's hands loosened. "I don't know if you can hear me," his voice dryer than ever before spoke. "You died for me, if it takes my life to see your final wish fulfilled," he paused for a few moments before exhaling heavily. "I'll see it done," he finished. The blade in his rattled against the leather coating his gloves as if in protest. He looked down at it wondering for a second if the blade really could hear him. It shot out of his hands and into the sandy fog ahead. "Damn," Shepherd said to himself. All around the world rumbled as herculean bolts of wind crashed into him from every direction and squeezed his body. Swirling tendrils of dust became clear around Shepherd's body, slithering and constricting him like snakes. As the storm began to settle the silhouettes of several people became clear. The most prominent of which stepped out in front of him raising his foot high in the air and coming to rest it on Shepherd's chest. "Gotcha," the man said with a gleeful smile. He had a mad wide open look in his eyes and sharp jagged teeth. Half of his face had a red faded burn mark and his blond hair was rippled in the wind that vaguely resembled the embers of a flame. "Now, I don't usually talk to you mongrels," he continued. "But, quite frankly, you don't seem like all that great of a Zephyra hunter," "I'm not a hunter," Shepherd said calmly. "I'd almost believe you considering how bad you are at it," the man snickered. "But then there's this little fella," he said holding up the zephyr sword for Shepherd to see. "Tell me, what brings a man kill another and make a weapon out of him," he asked his mad eyes narrowing with contempt. Shepherd looked down at the ground watching the sand crept up his leg threatening to drag him under. "I didn't kill him," Shepherd protested. The man's mad grin faded into a distasteful snarl. "Convincing," he retorted before using the foot on Shepherd's chest to push him to the ground. "Can we kill him yet," a crazed voice hissed from behind the man. "Go nuts," He said waving his back as if to call off an order. The dust around him condensed and squeezed his body further as the sand consumed more and more of his body. He felt his bones beginning to splinter under the pressure and his eyes felt like they would pop out. Just as he was beginning to accept his end the force lifted. He fell to his knees and felt something metallic brush up against his boots. He opened his eyes to find his zephyr blade sliding to him through the sand. He shot up blade in hand and prepared to blast a powerful force of wind at his assailants before the man's words rang in his head. Turning a man into a weapon. He looked down at his friend. "That won't be your legacy," he said softly.