A road leads one way, until the fork appears that carries the traveler in the direction he needs to go. Depending on the speed the said traveler is taking to cross this road, he can arrive at his destination early, on time, or very late. That all depends on the traveler's attitude, though, and in this instance, the traveler coming up the dust-stirred path was going at a very brisk pace. He walked steadily, each stride using the same amount of effort and carrying him the same amount of distance.

The man's face was clearly full of determination; eyes squeezed together in an effort to keep the choking dirt out of his eyes. In saying that, his lips, almost white, were pressed together in a pinch of irritation. A dark, wide-brimmed hat made out of sharply cut leather sat on top of his forehead, keeping the baking ball of fire that hung in the sky off his face and neck - not that it would do much good, since the Dark Elf's features were already a leathery brown. An odd piece of clothing, a sweeping cloak, hung around the rest of his body. It was a rich green, something uncommon in the barren wastelands the traveler carried himself through. Underneath, a cotton shirt and leather chaps clung to his skin in the dry wind that pushed with it the dust of the desert.

A stir to the East caught the traveler's eye. He cocked an ear in that direction, and caught enough in time to swing out of the way as a roar of stone and sand came towering down from the sky. He managed a barrel roll in time enough to have his left ankle get caught in the mess. Stumbling, the traveler fell into the road and had the dust swarm around his body.

Coughing, Tarik Dresden carefully rose from his position while loosing the scimitar that hung around his waist. The blade had a strange, black and purple tint to it, the same color that could be used for drawings of smoke. Around the edge of the blade, a thin, cherry red edge ran along as the desert sun showered it's warmth upon it.

A figure in black, gold-trimmed clothing walked from another dust cloud, hair in a thin cut and yellow and black spikes running down the back of his head. The robes were like that of a nobleman, except at the waist downward they went into a cut, allowing the legs to be free and able to go about the same business as wearing chaps. Claws the color shadow and ashes were displayed on the man's hands, touched with a hint of power behind them.

"Got you," Kharith growled, walking forward.

The dust settled, but the hot wind from the south continued to blow. Even as the dust stirred up by the attack thinned, a hazy layer of red sand hung in the air. The wind was even more bothersome, pressing Tarik's cloak to his chest. One hand was on the scimitar, and the other on the wide-brimmed hat that was dangerously close to being swept off his head.

Now that he could see clearly, the Dark Elf was able to notice new features of the man who had attacked him. The spikes on Kharith's head were actually hair that were brushed back to keep it out of his eyes. Tarik could understand that - at the length the man had his hair, it would blind him until it was swept away. The other thing Tarik noticed was the claws; Or, rather, the glove-like claws that rested in Kharith's hands. There were five, curved claw-like daggers each on Kharith's two hands, and each was connected by a piece of leather. The leather met on a disk of metal, making a glove representing a claw. Odd, but effective at close range.

(Continued in Part II)