The earth was hard. Dry. Overhead the last rays of the sun spread across the sky, bathing the land with a crimson hue. Wind whipped sand flew through the air scouring clean all that it touched. Demetrius Longfellow cowered in the sandstorm, one hand clutching his leather skullcap tight to his head, the other pressed over his nose and lips trying to keep the fine powder from coating his lungs.
     He made his way across the Great Waste searching for relics from, the before; small baubles of the Ancients that were all that was left of their once great civilization. Each object was worth the fortune of a kingdom, each one a link in a chain that stretched back over two millennia.
     The sand swirled harder, almost driving Demetrius to his knees. He lowered his head against the gritty onslaught and took a deep breath. Then pushing himself forward he resumed his journey, for to fall here would mean death and he was not ready for that yet, but he was growing tired. Each breath he drew left him in agony. Each step forward brought forth a new pain.
     His world was sand. It filled every crack and crevice of his body. It defined his world, his existence. Time seemed to fall away, with each moment blurring together into one, long, undefined stream.
     Without warning, the wind died to low ebb and became a gentle breeze. Darkness slid across the ground while high overhead the first evening stars swam into view. The moon hung low, full and swollen in the sky, its argent light casting long shadows across the desert floor. Spread before him was the ancient ruins of a city.
     The grit beneath his feet firmed into the hardness of stone. The road to the city was long and unbroken, a river of stone flowing forward into a jungle of concrete and steel, remnants of an age long forgotten. Abandoned in the long-ago of the world.
     Lights flickered to life as he wandered onto the outskirts of town. Strange globes on long poles igniting as he passed beneath. Empty buildings rose on either side of him, stark reminders of days gone by. Of what was lost. Of what had gone before.
     There were few others like him, wanderers in the wilderness. Folks called him mad. Said that he should keep his nose out of things better left buried. Leave those things alone that could bring more harm than good.
     He wanted to, had tried several times to curb his curiosity, to lead a normal life. Every time he seemed to break away, the mysteries reached out and drew him back again. Back to the path that lead him to this moment, to this strange road beneath his feet. To this city, the desert had devoured.
     He swallowed once as he paused to take in the scene before him, letting the city’s emptiness wash over and through him. With staff clutched in hand and cap pulled low, he stepped forward.
     The silence no longer seemed empty. Menace filled the night. Overhead the stars grew dim and the full moon faded to a pale outline. The sense of oppression grew with each footfall, each step leading him into a fog of unreasoning hatred, which seemed to flow from the air itself.
     Voices reached out to him from the shadows. Whispering dark fortunes. Gibbering words long forgotten. Names better left unsaid. Fear jolted through him. Old tales from when he sat at his grandmother’s knee filled his minds eye.
     The Ancients had created many things. Made many wonders now lost to the sands of time. Legends told of music that wafted from the air, beautiful and transcendent, melodies which could hold the listener enthralled for hours at a time. She told of living tapestries that shone with brilliant light, weaving stories to inspire those in despair and leading the fearful to newfound courage.
     She had spoken of darker things as well. He recalled a story of a harp that made the weather into a weapon and one of evil men entombed in ice, waiting for their time of awakening so that they might walk the world once more, to command and shape it to their will.
     A city does not give up its secrets easily. This one was no different. Amidst a growing sense of dread, he combed the ruins for anything of value, something that would excite the imagination of his people; to cause them to want to reclaim what was lost in the long ago of the world.
     The objects he found were few and hard won. Trinkets and toys. Puzzles made of an unknown material, which was both light and smooth to the touch. Clothing made of a rugged, durable cloth he had never before seen. He took what he could, filling the various pockets of his robe with a multitude of small objects, while the larger ones went into his pack.
     In the early hours of the morning, things look different. Reality seems to blur and become fuzzy around the edges. Things are not always, as they appear. He moved through the streets like a spectre. Silent. Calm. Unperturbed. Signs written in an unknown tongue hung suspended high in the air above him. A sudden weariness filled his bones, dragging his legs down like lead weights.  He longed for home and the time to explore his discoveries, time to develop the simple tools that would improve the fortunes of his neighbors. A smile played across his lips. The way home would be long and hard but it would be worth it.
     A voice hissed from the surrounding darkness. "Old One," it said. "Surrender now and your death will be swift."
     With firm resolve, he quickened his stride, not daring to pause in his retreat. If he gave up now his sacrifice would be in vain. His artifacts lost. The great potential of the knowledge he carried would be lost once again to the Waste. Terror coursed through his veins giving him newfound strength. His pace now shifted from stride to fast run.  He gulped in huge breaths of gritty desert air. His lungs burned for more, demanding more than he could provide while still fleeing from the unknown horror.
     On every side, the shadows seemed to thicken, grow denser. Taking on half formed shapes, that one should never have to see, much less imagine. A sharp pain bit into his side. His legs gave way beneath him and he fell, tumbling head over heels into the darkness before him.
     "So be it," the shadows echoed. The sound tolled from every direction at once like a great funeral bell. "So. Be. It."
     The sound of footsteps brought him around. Slow and steady. Unhurried they approached him, a soft padding on the strange stone of the road. It was silent once more. The shadows had ceased their incessant gibbering; only the sound of his breathing and the light tread of approaching death could heard. Then the footsteps stopped and all was quiet.
     "Wait," he struggled with his pack. "Please! Wait!"
     "Your death comes, Old One," hissed a voice. "Not the quick death you cast aside, rather a slow and meandering one," the voice trailed off. "Then after..."
     "A-a-after," Demetrius swallowed digging harder into his pack, trying to find something, anything, which would help him now. "What comes aft...."
     A scream issued forth from his lips, wild, desolate, and full of unendurable pain. His hand burned, the stench of searing flesh filled his nostrils. He jerked his hand out of the bag and in it; he held a jagged six-pointed star that glowed with the light of eternity, burning away the dross that was his flesh. Purifying and refining it into something other than which it was.
     The wraith surged forward to claim its prize, longing to rend the old man's soul from his body and drag him down to an infinite torment. Not caring what had caused his prey agony, he drank in the pain like succulent wine.
     Demetrius swung his burning hand as the wraith lunged. Not knowing what he was doing just trying to quench the suffering. To extinguish the flame that was once his hand.
     "No!" the wraith shrieked. His exultance replaced with guttural anguish. A moment and a brief flare of light were all he knew. In an instant, he was no more.
     Sobbing wracked Demetrius' body as a blessed coolness washed over his hand. He opened his swollen eyes and breathed a small prayer of thanksgiving to the powers that be. Grateful for the small gift that was his life.
     His hand appeared to be undamaged and his fingers opened without pain. A small trinket fell to the ground, a gift from his grandmother from when he was a child. A holy medal. Something he had once scoffed at as being superstition had saved his life. With a growing sense of awe, he gathered up the precious item and running a leather cord through it tied it around his neck. He would never be without it again.
     Gathering up his pack and fixing his cap on his head; he took his staff firmly in hand and headed for home.