The dark sun. The burning red demise of a world. The reckless magic of defilers has left a sandy husk where once a great culture bloomed.

A dead world. Seas of silt, undulating sand dunes, bright white salt flats and baked dirt.

Heat and pressure ever building.

The parched earth begs for rain but gets only blood.

You watch a party of adventures enter the desert fort, haggard and filthy, stained by battle.

They are paid for the severed elven heads they carry which are strung up on the walls, their victory over the desert runners celebrated in whoops and hollers.

No one's blood runs cold, it’s far too hot.

You remember nothing of this world. Nothing except its brutality. Your memories are gone, wiped away by someone or something.

Your hands are bound by thick rope that cuts at your wrists. You are tied to others who tread the hot earth before you and behind you. The sand so hot it's like walking on ash covered coals. You march and march.

If you falter you are whipped onwards by men mounted on Kanks their many jointed knees scuttling with envious ease across the white hot earth. 

Everyone looks down as they march.

Around your feet the sand begins to dance. At first lifted only faintly by the breeze, but soon it swirls around your feet circling like a snake up your legs. Moments later it's difficult to breath. More powerful than you or your unknown sadistic masters. Soon everything is sand. This moment of choking chaos is an opportunity...