<div align="center"><strong>[Daybreak.]</strong> </div><br/>Waking up slowly to the forlorn screeching of the vultures overhead, the morning sun was remarkably bright today. A significant breeze stirred up fine particles of sand for miles, casting an ember haze over the horizon and blocking out the sun. The red fog deposited red sand in the sheriff’s cowboy boots, which had managed to find a way to come off during the night. Just then, a putrid scent jerked Amos awake.<br/><br/><em>“What the hell is that?!”</em>he looked around in confusion as he tied his bandana around his mouth and nose so as to avoid inhaling any of the smell.<br/><br/>It was the stench of carcass. That was a smell Amos had not encountered in a while, during his hiatus as a Drifter. His duties as a sheriff were more in line with a night watchman and Amos faced far more illicit, illegal and lethal things in the wilderness of Filgaia than he did in his quaint one-inn town of Happy Alex.<br/>The vultures, still circling overhead, began swooping downwards towards their prey on the ground. The birds of prey began feeding on some halfway fermented animal. Gored and mutilated, the animal was unidentifiable. Tearing sinew from bone, the birds violently threw bits of their fresh banquet around the campsite.<br/><br/><em>“Wait a second…somethin’s wrong here y’all,”</em>Amos said to nobody in particular. Confused, he looked around the town square to survey the damage.<br/><br/><em>“Somethin’ is definitely wrong here.” </em><br/><br/>He paced a few steps and panic began to set in. What happened here last night? He had only been asleep for a few hours; surely there was some mistake or something Amos was not seeing. His eyesight, after all, was beginning to fade as age, stress and general fatigue took its toll on his worn body. Where last night there had been some 50 odd Drifters, this morning that number was cut by half. Perhaps two dozen Drifters remained, among them were Carol Lynn and the 5 memorable Drifters from the night prior who assisted him in making the campfire.<br/><br/><em>“Where could them youngins have gone?” </em>Amos began speed walking around the town square. Drifters love drinking and therefore the sheriff speculated his party was simply preparing for the days event by getting sufficiently inebriated. He decided to check for his roaming Drifters in the most likely locales of the town. Popping into the saloon, Amos called out to the Drifters, but did not receive any notable reply besides one:<em>“Urrrrrrrgggghhhhhhhh.”</em><br/>The only ones inside the saloon were the drunkards from last night, passed out on the floor and propped up against the barstools. Amos had stirred one of them awake. Walking back outside and heading back towards the Lone Star drifter camp, Amos became noticeably upset.<br/><br/><em>“They left…”</em>falling to the floor, Amos scratched the ground.<br/><br/><em>“Goddamn it! They left! Why would they leave?</em>” Amos, perhaps still elevated from his oration and the positive reception from last night, was in disbelief that so many had changed their mind. However, Drifters are a flaky lot with a short attention span; in reality, the odds were stacked against Amos that the Drifters would stay the night. Perhaps Drifters<em>are</em>nothing more than just that – Drifters, delinquents and degenerates who are incapable of seeing anything through to the end. With bits of supplies and rations strewn about the town square, horse tracks leading towards the town entrance (and exit) were visible.  The sheriff’s suspicions were confirmed. Partially blaming himself, Amos wondered if he could have done anything to prevent the exodus of his Drifters during the night. He pondered over their potential justifications for leaving. Could they have been scared? Drifters often times don’t fear for their lives, but no Drifter has attempted a mission of such a scale and significance. Did they change their minds overnight and assume that “saving Filgaia” was a fruitless endeavor? Or did some of them simply become disinterested, which was also a probable explanation.<em>“Cowards. All of them.” </em><br/><br/>As Amos sat down next to the still steaming pile of firewood and waited for the remaining or undecided-whether-they-want-to-continue Drifters to awake, he cracked another can of beans on the same rock from yesterday. Regardless of his failure to attract dedicated Drifters, Amos already knew he had to press on further. He was going to save Filgaia one way or another. In the meanwhile, as he impatiently waited for everyone to wake up from their slumber and begin the day-long trip to Port Rose, Amos continued slurping the beans from the can.<br/><br/><em>“Mmm. I don't remember the last time I had breakfast.”</em><br/>