Those who came across her thin frame cloaked black in the desert heat, carrying nothing but a walking stick, slowly drifting along the seemingly endless road, would have remembered her. If they had survived.
She continued, unaffected by the searing wind of the wasteland; physical discomforts didn't trouble her. She was different. . .better. Far in the distance a hunched shape trudged toward her. Too far off to see any details with her eyes, she closed them and studied the oncomer with her mind: a weathered, broken wayfarer with only a flicker in him of the powerful adventurer he once was. A long, heavy blade hung from his belt, balanced by a heavier sack slung over his right shoulder - no doubt the meager spoils of a voyage at which his younger self would have scoffed.
A twinge of hunger pulled open her eyes. From deep within she summoned an ancient energy, long forgotten by most dwellers of that world. The wayfarer was surprised to see another traveler in such blistering heat, but was far more surprised to see that traveler one moment a great distance away and the next beside him. He had only to catch a glimpse of her blazing eyes to know to reach for his sword.
She was unprepared for the speed of the voyager, who appeared so weary on the surface, but left her side gaping. Almost unconsciously, she directed some of the power that blazed within her to bind closed the gash in her side and leave only a scar under her blood-soaked cape.
It was now the adventurer's turn to be unprepared. The inhuman speed with which she recovered from a wound that may have been mortal to another allowed her to grasp her now-panicked prey and drain some of his life, while strengtheni ng her own. Even in his prime, the adventurer could not have withstood an attack as ruthless as hers. And soon his butchered corpse lie soaking into the ground. She lingered only long enough to absorb what energy remained in his body, and left a pile of clothing, dried skin, and bones to be picked at and scattered by the inhabitants of the wasteland.
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