Within the great mural of desolation, there lies a languished lady. Adorned in bruises and a few wounds, the torment from past cruelties renders her encumbered. Still as a corpse, she may as well be food for buzzards and vultures alike. Quite radiant a meal, if so, this battered black-haired beauty hiding the glamour of a goddess.

    Farewell for now, darkness. Awaken.

    Devil red eyes open, though tucked away beneath narrowed lids. The desert sky is peerless in its gleaming presence. The harsh rays brings not a speck of comfort to this sore maiden. Her unsightly portrayal may as well be fitting to be a part of this vast dismal canvas where lush green can be a delight to see. Perhaps a cactus at best, though none of that is within a mile around her.

    Her breath is labored. Light shudders squeal out from her pale red lips. Toes within brown boots twitch a little. Fingers resting on grainy soil squirm weakly. What vigor she has feels sparse, though it is there. The petrification from weariness and pain is being fought for the chance to regain even the slightest semblance of sprightliness.

    To pose an inquiring thought into the ether: what brought this lady into this wide plain governed by drought? Surely, she was not begotten on this lawn of sand. Surely, she hailed from a faraway place. Strides of circumstances had taken place, short and long in each enactment, may have led her to then lie here in wordless anguish.

    There is a double-edge short sword a yard to her right. Half of it is stabbed on the sand. Murky silver blade and black hilt are dull in what rich sheen they may once had. Small dry spot of pale blood and little scratches thinner than a thread are on the exposed stretch of the tool. It has seen conflict, the forged fang. A few or many in its daring dance to defend oneself or claim a life, a curious mind can ask its wielder when it is convenient.

    A bit sting writhes on her knee, just a wee bit. Did someone or something prod her, seeking her awful-looking audience? The woman swings her weakened gaze to the spot where who or what disturbed her maybe standing or is simply there. Probably.

    Dry lips are sealed. Breath is still feeble. Her frail fortitude is denying her enough strength to even puff a faint whisper. Her narrowed eyes are trying make sense of the stranger. No judgment to put forth. However, those gems that witnessed thousands of moments filled with joy or horror, calm and chaos, have an odd presence in them.

    Vigor remains inadequate. Silence and a stare. Those are what she can provide at the moment for the knee-prodding foreigner. Perhaps in time, when the pain is less to be endured, her nerves and lungs feel better, more can be given as a way to acknowledge whoever is keeping her in company.

    The downed lady in centurion leather keeps mute to the guest who she can barely comprehend. The wait for her strength to return is rather agonizing, this trauma weighing her down. To break free from this spell as a lovely corpse would be swell. Anytime now.