The cruel blade glinted in the desert sun. Razor-sharp silver, turning over in the light, white reflection of light gleaming off it, blinding those around slightly, the tiny gleam upon the blade looking white-hot. Black leather fingers, like the cold hands of death, slid across the clean blade, feeling the heat of it - not enough to warp the beautiful piece of steel, but enough to lightly burn the fingers of an unclad hand. Yet through the leather gloves, it was simply a soft warmth, like that of an old fireplace, comforting and sleepy.
Valentine looked up at the huge, empty sky, completely cloudless, the sun beating down upon sand and rock. The small chunk of orange sandstone he sat upon was even hotter than the blade he had left out that morning, but he did not care; the pain was minimal for him, and through his duelling jacket and cape, it felt no more warm than a comfortable bed. He lay on his back, where he had for days. He did not thirst; he did not feel hunger. Such things had barely affected him before, and held no meaning here.
Lifting his hand off his blade, he stared at the leather of his gloves; they were clean, unworn by the ravages of time. His riding boots were barely worn as well. His clothes were well-made; in his world, in the hell of the night, he'd demanded that they be as such. He would not wear or use inferior equipment. To do so was ill-befitting of a man such as him.
He heard a voice; a little like his, but not as crisp, cruder, its tongue twisted by the words of the lower classes. It lacked his sharp, refined edge. It interested him; he had not heard voices like that for many years, not since...
He could not remember, and discarded the thought like an apple core, the meat of the fruit gone from the memory. He had no use for such thoughts. So what if he could not remember? He did not remember much. It never concerned him.
He rolled off his back, pushing himself to his feet. He grasped the hilt of his sword, sliding it into its sheath with barely a sound; once, it would have been silent, but the oil was degrading, and he had no replacement. Soon, his clothes and boots and gloves and blade would wear and become useless to him. Hopefully, he'd make it to the mountain sooner rather than later. It was necessary that such a thing happened, before he died. He knew, just like the rest, that he had to make his journey, his pilgrimage, to the mountain. That was why he'd written all those notes.
He leapt off the edge of the rock, moving silently, landing on the sand like a ghost, the only noise the soft settling of dislodged sand beneath him. He quietly turned, observing a young woman before him, his crimson eyes cold, systematic, watching like a bird of prey. Was she a threat? From the looks of her, not. Had she come to help him? From the looks of things, yes. She must have found his note.
Most curious.