The air was achingly dry. Quentin pursed his lips tightly, not only to try to save the moisture, but to seal against the whipping sand in the air pelting him with every gust. He would worry about the grains in his beard and hair later -- assuming there would be a later. At least he didn't have to worry about his eyes. His goggles were pretty damn comfortable, all things considered.

He did his best to follow Gideon's footsteps in the sand in front of him, as it was the easiest way to get to the parle. His guide's footprints quickly disappearing in the loose grains. The massive size of the prints were his only saving grace as Gideon's silhouette was already lost in the dust. He picked up the pace dogged by the fact that his boots weren't made for sand and Gideon's stride was more than twice his.

He was sure they were on some kind of dune, he could tell that much. His legs were getting exhausted trekking in sand, and his loadout easily added 20kg to his weight. Then he noticed the footprints were gone and Quentin stopped dead in his tracks. He hadn't strayed from the path. The prints just seemed to end. His chest tightened as he fought off the initial panic. Was he screwed? Quentin felt the sweat evaporate on his forehead. He took another step and his footing gave out beneath his boot, quickly sinking knee deep into the slope of the dune.

Quentin struggled to keep his balance as he struggled to free his foot. The grains of sand refilled with every scoop of his hand. Ahead the dust cleared just enough to see the hints of their destination. A heavy canvas fort, attached to supports appeared to be like oversized halberds, their blades pointed skyward. -- they were almost there. It was almost time for the parle, and here he was, making a great impression.

A massive claw-hand seized him by the shoulders and with a simple flex, pulled him from his sandy trap -- minus his boot. Once safely set on the ground, Quentin found his footing and turned toward his grumbling rescuer. The Torak was close to twice his height, big by even their specie's standards. Gideon wasn't known for his shining personality, but at least he was somewhat ambivalent toward humans.

"Thanks," Quentin said louder than intended. Gideon looked down at him and stared for a moment. He did speak some broken English, but never unless he had to. "Feet pointy. Walk flat," Gideon grunted from his chest before turning and lumbering toward the entrance.

"Walk flat? The hell does that mean?" Quentin thought to himself. He started shuffling his feet as he stepped. He wasn't sinking any, so he kept going and feeling more foolish with each shuffle. He was just glad no one else could see this site. A man with one boot slowly scooting his way though a desert toward a fort of hostile Toraks.

Finally he reached the entrance to the fort. Gideon stood next to the entrance waiting patiently for Quentin. As he approached, Gideon pulled a cable, opening the way inside. Quentin paused for a moment before proceeding inside, glancing a look up toward Gideon, whose iron gaze was set toward the horizon. "Will you be here when we're finished?" Quentin asked.

The noise of Gideon's the throaty breathing was his only response.

Quentin stepped inside. His eyes adjusted quickly to the interior. Despite the thickness of the canvas, a lot of light still made it through. As Quentin walked deeper into the foyer of the fort, he mused for a moment whether there was actually any artificial lighting at all in the fort. Those thoughts quickly left him as his mission objective appeared before him. The Lord of War.

The military leader, now chieftain of Torak Moon Tribe. Adorned with robes and a headdress, most of his features lay obscured. It was clear, however, that along his chest lay a small collection of human skulls in mesh. Less obvious was that he was missing an arm. His other, still present, arm firmly gripped a halberd with a pulse rifle strapped to it like a trophy. He sat atop a crudely constructed throne of destroyed human machinery. At his feet lay dozens of guns, many stripped to the bare components. Behind him hung the Moon Tribe flag, a Torak claw scrawled across Halyard's moon, still pristine in its representation, back before the cataclysm added a couple million tons of rock to moon's orbit.

A guard slipped from the shadows and sidled up next to Quentin. This Torak was much smaller than Gideon, still whole foot taller than Quentin, but anyone smaller Gideon was a welcome change. "Tribute," the guard hissed in a garbled voice. Gideon sounded like a native English speaker by comparison. Quentin carefully offloaded his parcel from his back and set it down with a clank. Quentin unzipped the top and poured out its contents. Out came about a dozen guns, basically whatever he could fit on his back. None of the weaponry he brought were operational, but they didn't know that, and as Quentin looked around he realized that didn't seem to matter either.

The Lord of War knocked the heel of his halberd on the floor, demanding attention and initiating the parle. "You have sought an audience. Now speak," The Lord of War said in startlingly clear, clean English. "And speak true, Quentin of Man. A warning first: Do not confuse our kindness with humanity."

Quentin swallowed and stepped forward, now came the hard part.