"I hate sand," Otus grumbled, shaking a foot to try and remove some from his sandal. A bead of sweat ran down his spine, followed quickly by a second. The heat from the midday sun was almost unbearable, even in his light cotton shirt. Which, incidentally, hadn't prevented him from burning when he'd first arrived. Thankfully he was now a dark brown tan instead of lobster red. He shuddered to remember how that burn had peeled. He squinted up at the sun. "And the heat. Gods, do I hate the heat. Actually," he spoke as if someone was listening, "I hate everything about this miserable, bloody desert."
He sat heavily in the sand and tossed his gladius to one side with an air of contempt. "Join the bloody legions," he muttered, picking up a small rock. "See the bloody world." The rock went skipping across the sand. "Well, I saw it. Keeps trying to kill me." He laughed suddenly. "You know," he ran a hand over his bald head, "At least things can't get any worse." That's when the enemy rider came over the horizon. "You," he spoke up at the sky, "Have a sick and twisted sense of humor."