Another day, another chance. We start at the break of dawn, and our spirits lift after an hour of hard travel once we spot the border line, easily discernable from our vantage point on the crest of a particularly large sand dune, defined by scattered towns and refugee camps at the desert's edge. /Perhaps it is not so hopeless after all/ Our relief is short lived, as we encounter a small patrol comprised of ten men. They approach us cautiously, guns readied. My hood is on, hiding the distinctive pebbles from prying eyes. If they know who we are, they wouldn't hesitate to fire. Behind me, Lina mutters arcane phrases, hands and face hidden beneath the folds of off white robes. Gourry's hand reaches to the left side of his belt, clenching around a nearly invisible camouflaged hilt. Amelia confronts the men as she has the most innocent and young complexion of us all, and is the only one who will not be recognized.

"Who are you sirs? And what is it that you want from such poor, poor people as ourselves?" She inquires pitifully.

Somewhat abashed, the leader answers in a gruff tone. "We are the finest fighting forces under the mighty Dynast Grauscherra, uncontested defeater of that vile tyrant, that dog Phillionel." the commander accentuated the last remark by spitting upon the ground, "I demand identification or troops will be called in."

Her fists clench in barely suppressed rage. Amelia tightly replies, "We are the last magic users in Seyruun, and you will die for insulting my father."

"Fireball!" Lina exclaims, an enormous ball of flame obliterates five men. Before the others can react, Gourry and I draw our swords, dispatching the remaining five with cold malice.