Wide, expansive wasteland sprang forth from every corner of his mind's eye. Desolation and the ruin of civilisation ran rampant through the unconscious soul as images of sand and soil, snow and flame, wreckage and glory pounded in the mind. He was flying high, above aberrant, tormented cities of those who knew only fear. Lightning cracked sideways and dark clouds began to spiral. The world turned inside out, the horizon draining towards a single point. And there, in the extremes of imaginable distance, he saw it. A gloomy monolithic pillar of unfathomable scale and proportion. Here, his journey would start and end. From deep below, or perhaps inside (it was hard to tell), a voice not entirely alien boomed out in ragged defiance, but the words were not speech. Speeding into the foreground, the unending pillar of darkness inverted; became gaping crevasse and the mind fell through. Deschain jolted from his dream once more, in a familiarly discomforting way. Sweltering heat heralded the dawn as the twin stars began to rise. Sheltered by a rocky outcropping, the pilgrim was spared the worst of the heat at daybreak although he would have to be on his way before long. Sitting up in his shady, improvised camp, Deschain unhooked an obnoxiously large, polished chromium blaster from his right hip and began his daily ritual. He cracked the energy chamber open and blew out a few grains of fine sand which had been carried up the barrel by the swirling wind overnight. Replacing the blaster at his hip, he repeated the process with its twin. All things have a twin, in one time or place. These guns were so wonderfully unique, yet an exact pair, that they carried a certain presence, quite difficult to describe in mundane sensory terms. With his guns clean, the Gunslinger rolled to his knees with a slight groan of discomfort and stepped forth into the punishing heat of Tatooine once more. Deschain stood still and surveyed the land for moment - a lone sentinel in the dunes. As far as the eye could see in any direction, the landscape was dominated entirely by gently rolling sand waves. The jagged stone beside which he had slept was the most notable feature for miles. However, far far in the distance - almost lost in the haze - a ridge of ruddy mountains pushed up from the sable dessication of the land. It was in that direction his quarry headed, so in that direction Deschain must follow. Stretching the stiffness out of his calves and donning his wide-brimmed headgear, the ageing warrior set forth again along an invisible and endless trail. And thus, once more, the man in black fled across the desert and the gunslinger followed.
