The hard-packed red clay beneath the lone travelers' boots sent up a small puff of pale red dust every time one was picked up and set down a pace further on. The sun glared mercilessly down on the travelers' hunched shoulders, as if the very light itself weighed tons. Thrown carelessly around the mans' shoulders was a tattered and threadbare cloak, that might once have been a stunningly deep crimson but was now such a pale shade of pink as to be almost white. Beneath the cloak were faded black leather clothes, so worn as to be softer than doeskin. Multiple belts were slung around narrow hips and from one dangled a gun holster, weighed down by an overly large, triple-barreled revolver. Slung across the travelers' shoulders, barely visible beneath the cloak, was a long barreled rifle, it's muzzle carefully wrapped in oilskin to keep it safe from the elements and beneath the rifle rested a simple sack, now and then jumping slightly with the travelers' stride. The travelers' hair, black as sin, and long enough to rival the tattered hem of the cloak that brushed his ankles, was semi-tamed by a strip of cloth that looked like it had been torn from the hem of the cloak. The bandana was pulled down almost to the bridge of his nose, casting the mans' eyes into shadow. His mouth was set into a hard line, looking for all the world like he hadn't smiled in decades. All added up to one, Vincent Valentine, once three-time hero of the Planet, turned wanderer.
He'd been walking for weeks, wending his way across the bleak desert landscape from one tiny oasis to another. He never stayed more than a day and a night at any one, lest he upset the oh-so-fragile ecosystem. He had drank the last of his water three days ago, and the last of his food had been gone a week before that. If his memory served him, there should be an oasis less than a full days' walk from where he was. Wearily, he picked up his pace as best he could, making more dust puff up from under his heavy boots. Sunset saw him cresting a sand dune to look down on the skeletal desiccated remains of the trees that had surrounded the oasis. By the looks of it, it had succumbed to the ever encroaching desert and dried up shortly after he'd left it a year ago. Heaving a heart-heavy sigh, he shrugged out of the straps of his rucksack, letting it thump to the ground in a cloud of red dust. His rifle followed suit, though much more carefully, with the wrapped muzzle resting on the pack, safely away from the ground. One-handed, he unbuckled the belts around his waist, coiling them neatly on top of his pack, with the large-bore revolver on top, within easy reach. The last few fading rays of light stretched Vincents' shadow into a gross caricature. He glared at it, as if daring it to come alive. When he got no reaction, he sighed again and spread his cloak out on the sand. With deft fingers, he undid the small buckles on the underside of his gauntlet, to loosen it enough to slip off. With a distasteful grimace at the sight of his mangled limb, he placed the gauntlet on his cloak and walked a few paces away, to stop where he thought he remembered the pool being.
'This is going to be fun.' He thought inanely, humor the last thing on his mind. Shoving his wandering thoughts aside, he began to dig, scooping the soft sand to either side with practiced sweeps of his hands. He lost himself in the mindless work. By the time the moon was rising, he had dug a hole almost twelve feet deep. His left hand scooped a large handful that clumped suspiciously. Vincent paused mid-throw, bringing the handful in front of his face. Hesitantly, he sniffed it. Under the dry scent of sand was the very faint scent of water. With renewed vigor, he kept digging. Every handful he scooped and tossed over his shoulder was damper than the one before it. A disgusting gurgling sound came from the sand beneath his feet. Slowly at first, then with increasing speed, water bubbled up through the sand. Vincent backpedaled swiftly, jumping for the rim of the hole. The level of water rose swiftly, as if reaching to drag his fleeing form back down into the depths of the hole.
When the water had reached its peak depth, and had settled some, Vincent retreated to his cloak and rummaged in his backpack for his waterskins. Carefully kneeling at the edge of the waterhole, so as not to knock the sand back in, he began filling the skins with as much as they would hold. When all were full, he took them back to his makeshift bed and repacked them. Looking at the remaining water, he made up his mind. Quickly shucking out of his clothes, he unwound the bandana, letting his raven hair fall completely free. Stepping gingerly into the water, he let himself sink until just his nose and up was above the water. The water was frigid, but Vincent relished the icy bite of it after the intense heat of the days. He couldn't remember the last time he'd deigned to bath. Having to conserve water for drinking meant little for other things. He let himself float in the water until he felt his feet touch the bottom of the hole. The desert was reclaiming what he hadn't taken. He submerged quickly, roughly running his fingers along his scalp, scrubbing away weeks or months worth of accumulated grime. Taking a double handful of clean sand from the bottom of the hole, he scrubbed his body until his skin was pink. But at least he was clean. The last of the water drained back into the sand, leaving Vincent standing in the now empty hole, dripping and shivering. He leapt out of the hole and returned to his cloak, wringing the water from his hair into a small collapse-able pot. Drawn by the intoxicating scent of the water, small subterranean shellfish had begun to burrow out of the damp sand. Quickly snatching up a handful at a time, he dumped them in the pot, not even bothering to kill or clean them. When he had a sufficient amount in the pot, he went around and gathered as much wood from the dead trees as he could carry. He made a neat pyramid of sticks with a pile of shavings inside. Fishing around in his pack, he brought out a small crystal orb that fit in the palm of his hand. The deep red color shifted from red to orange to yellow, flickering like flames. Vincent regarded the marble sized orb with a look of fond remembrance. A certain pyromaniacally inclined ninja had given it to him a long time ago.
"FIRE'' he murmured, channeling a small flicker of magic into the orb. An orange spark jumped from his fingertips to the pile of tinder. The bone dry wood caught instantly, and soon Vincent had a merry little fire going. He reached behind him and snagged the pot, setting it gently on top of the wooden pyramid. He stared listlessly into the flames as he waited for his dinner to cook. The flames warmed him, sending his mind wandering. The last time he'd sat in front a fire had been in a small village near the coast. The villagers had been wary of his approach, appearing as he had from out of a sandstorm. It had taken a great deal of time and effort to convince the elders that he wasn't a raider. In the end, they had welcomed him, and when it was time for him to move on, they had given him what food they could spare, meager though the offering was. He was brought out of his memories by the wind picking up. Deciding that his dinner was cooked enough, he pulled the pot off the embers of the fire, and set it on the sand to cool. While he waited, he rummaged in his pack again for a hairbrush. With swift strokes, he eased the tangles from his mane. When he was satisfied that all the tangles were gone, he began braiding it, pleating the soft strands into many small braids. When all of his hair was braided, he swept the mass over his shoulder and tied them all into one tail with a thin strip of leather.
'Now for dinner.' He picked up the pot, drained the water and started eating, crunching the shellfish carapaces, organs and all. After decimating a quarter of them, he decided to save the rest for another meal. He pulled a square of oilcloth from his pack and wrapped them up in it before slipping the package into a pocket on the backpack. Vincent gazed up at the moon, noting the position of the stars. If he was right, it was only about three in the morning. He had a couple more hours of cool night to travel. Heaving himself to his feet, he dressed quickly, doused the fire, shrugged into his cloak and pack, and started on his way with the wind at his back.
The sun started peaking above the horizon, casting its ruddy light on the ground. Vincent squinted, his dark accustomed eyes protesting the higher light level. With the rising sun, the temperature would soon rise to an uncomfortable level, even for him. Luckily for Vincent, there was a large rock outcropping a few miles distant. If he upped the pace a little, he might be able to reach it before it got too hot. His assumption had been correct. The air temperature was just starting to become unbearable as he slipped beneath the outcrop. To his surprise, the back of the rock where he thought it would meet the ground, kept going down. Unholstering his handgun, he crept along the tunnel, his boots making hardly any sound on the hard stone. His keen eyes picked out details as easily as if it were as bright as day. The tunnel didn't go very far before it opened out into a sizable cavern. Vincent was surprised again when he caught the scent of water. He followed his nose to the farthest reaches of the cavern. There, nestled in a niche, was a tiny waterfall. The happy burbling sound of it was music to his ears. He didn't waste any time in making himself comfortable in the little cave.