He steps out of the shadows and presses his face into the clouds. While they do not contain much condensation and are quite wispy, even a few drops of water on his tongue help to soothe the desert heat. He has not eaten in weeks and continues drifting along in the hopes of finding nutrients to consume. He has become waif-like and brittle in the years that he has inhabited this waste, yet he has gained a grace not unlike the clouds he drinks from. He has learned to move with the mirages, to cross over thousand-yard dunes without leaving a single footstep. He has aligned himself with the winds and begrudgingly accepts the silent company of the sand.
If you were to ask him where he came from and how he ended up in the desert, he would not be able to tell you. There is light behind his eyes, but he flickers. There is fire within him, but he is running low on fuel. He does not remember a time before the desert and does not even know his own name. He simply knows he must continue until he reaches the Library. He knows which direction to travel, but not why he knows it. He drifts as he is told and spends time counting the moons as he moves. He dreams of vast stretches of water and some place called 'Home'.
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