[Npc](Open ) A tale of the would be hero ( M )

[Centurion]

Forward. He had to concentrate on forward. It didn't matter how heavy his armor was or how numb his right arm was becoming. It didn't matter that he was trailing the distinct crimson liquid that flows in all mankind's veins. It didn't matter that he was dying. What mattered was moving forward. The sand felt like lead weights on his feet as he limped through the storm. The gritty sand dug into his open wounds and stung his eyes, forcing him to drop his visor. Then, hope! Shadows, shifting in the storm! Allies? Or more damned bandits? Fumbling with his rifle, the man aimed in on the figures. He tried to call out, but all he could manage was a mangled choking sound.

Collapsing to one knee and barely gripping the rifle with one limp hand, the man was just about to allow the darkness to take him. It would have been easy to just let the sands carry him back home. But her face... it was burned in his mind. He would not rest until she was avenged, until justice was done. With every last ounce of strength remaining, the man bellowed out a savage war-cry, garbled by the storm and by his injuries, but denoting a strength hidden beneath his grievous wounds. Then his eyes closed. The rifle hit the dunes only a split second before he did.