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"Aw this is just fucking great! We'd make more bloody cash if we were full time highwaymen."

The young man turned his head back, to see two other men at the back of the coach. Dirty, ragged. Just as he was. One man held up what looked like a dress.

"We robbed this damn bunch for nothing."

The man next to him shook his head.

"Naw look! These are fancy clothes! We can sell em on the markets!"

"You sure?"

The second man held up a vest, a bright contrast compared to the rest of the sunken, arid land around him. He smiled, whistling.

"Oh I'm definitely sure! Rich folk material these ones are! Top dollar imports!"

The man slipped his arm into one sleeve of the vest, and then another, as he tried it on, admiring himself in a window of the carriage. As he searched through the remains of what the people had left behind, words found him.

"Hey. Don't be taking that all for yourself. We each take a cut."

The man in the vest simply laughed.

"You're just the distraction and the driver. We do all the work around here. Don't you worry about who gets what!"

The response came to him, like it always had. This was life, out here. He unholstered his pistol and pointed it at the man.

"I run the risk of being shot on sight! Don't you think you can rip a piece of the profits away from me! I do just as much work as you!"

The second man, older than the two, unholstered his own pistol, pointing it at him.

"Calm down, kid. Ain't nobody here gonna steal your cut."

The second man looked over to the one in the vest.

"Right?"

The man in the vest nodded.

"Yeah. I was just trying out something nice is all. Look, you want to try something on? Be my guest."

He tossed over a corset, which lay on the sand at his feet. He sighed, holstering his pistol as the vested man laughed. The second man slowly let his gun down, but didn't holster it. He went around to the front of the carriage once more, where he'd comb through the belongings of the owners of the coach. This was life, out here in the desert. The Sunken Lands as they called them.

Ancient cities, from ages long, long ago, sunken beneath the sand, leaving nothing in their wake but rubble and ruins, dotted the landscape of dunes, which rose and fell kilometers high. Out here, there was sand, ruin, and blood. This was his life. A robber of the trade routes.

The sled traveled along the sand, as the three men rode atop it, taking their haul with them, back to their bastion far away from here. The vested man in the back grumbled.

"Shoulda taken their damn horse. These Packers are slow as a man with no legs."

The second man spoke up.

"We're robbers, not highwaymen. We gave them the horse to get back where they came from. Besides, horses do no good out here. They get spooked too easy. They aren't reliable like the old Packer here."

As the sled traveled along, and the young man sat in front, directing the Packer, he couldn't help but look the creature over. The man in the vest was right. But so was the second. A large, reptilian animal, boasting a strange coat of shaggy-like spines pulled the sled along on four, slow, but steady legs. A long tongue flickered out in front of it, back and forth, as it smelled its way along rather than use its poor eyes. It was slow. But it was easy going, easy to control, and made of the desert itself. Tough and reliable.

The sled was dragged along in a steady manner, as the three men sat in relative silence. The Packer pulled them along, up gentle slopes and winding snake like dunes as the wind blew past them. As they made their way up to the top of a rather large slope, and came to rest at the peak, the three men saw something off in the distance that made all of them forget their previous worries earlier in the day. The man in the vest spoke up.

"Aw shit."

Out ahead of them, hundreds of miles away, the sky was black and dark, as a literal mountain's worth of sand swept across the land, headed right for them. It was a pillar, miles tall with no end in sight on both directions. A sandstorm was coming. The man in the vest spoke once more.

"We should have taken the damn horse and given them the Packer. We could have made it home in time. The damn Packer won't bat an eye at a sandstorm but we'll never make it through that in one piece."

As the young man guided the Packer along, he decided to speak up.

"We don't have to go through it. We take shelter. Or, wait a minute, we take a shortcut."

The man in the vest laughed.

"Hah! What makes you think I'd spend a single night in any of the damn ruins out here? Every last one of them is a damn tomb."

The second man in the back spoke up.

"And there's only one shortcut back home. And it's no better either."

The young man stopped the Packer, looking out into the distance. The landscape seemed to blend in the farther one looked. Ruins, sand dunes, and the sand storm all looked the same. Save for one point that dominated the horizon.

"What, you mean the Shard?"

The second man nodded.

"Yeah, I mean the Shard."

"I don't see what's wrong with going through it, unless you listen to the old wives tales."

The man in the vest snorted.

"Are you out of your flippin' mind!? Nobody goes through the Shard and comes out in one piece!"

The Packer merely turned its head back, watching as the young man stood up from his driver's seat, as it flicked its tongue lazily.

"Well I don't see much else we can do!"

He pointed out to the oncoming sandstorm.

"We can either go through the storm, and that's not an option! We can camp out in the ruins, but you're too damn scared! Or we can take the shortcut through the Shard and be done with it!"

The man in the vest drew his pistol, as he did himself, matching the man's speed. The two froze, pointing their weapons at each other. The man in the vest shook his head.

"You can call me a gutless coward any day of the week and try your luck in a draw with me. But I'm not setting a goddamn foot in the Shard!"

The second man stood up now, placing a hand on the vested man's shoulder.

"No. He's right. The Shard's our best chance."

The vested man turned back.

"Have you gone mad!?"

"No. But we don't have any other options here. Sitting out here and fighting won't get us anywhere. The only way our home has done so well to survive, and the only way we're going to survive, is if we work together."

"Is that an order from you?"

The older man drew his own gun.

"No. It's a polite suggestion."

He looked over to the young man in the driver seat, winking.

"Come on. Let's get going."

The Shard loomed over all, even the oncoming sandstorm, casting a shadow across the swirling sand. Of everything that filled this ancient desert, the Shard was the strangest. It was immense in size, a dark grey chunk of solid rock, almost black in colour. It stuck out amongst the sand, like an enormous jagged thorn. While most of the ruins were buried, and the ones above the sand where worn down to stone and little more, the Shard endured the ravages of the sand.

Canyons and multiple passages where gouged into the rock formation, some leading all the way through the immense landmark, others leading deeper and farther into the strange formation. The Shard had a reputation among all who walked these sands. Some believed that the Shard was once the center of the great empire that had been swallowed up by the sand, and that it had once stood tall, a beacon of the empires might. Regardless, it was a place that no man should ever step foot in. And the tales and stories bordered and blurred the lines between what a man would believe. But all led to the same conclusion. Stay out.

And now, as the coming sandstorm brought with it ever darkening shadows on the sky, and the Shard loomed over the trio, closer and closer, even the young man found himself beginning to doubt his decision. The rock was dark. Cold even. It seemed to radiate, something. But he didn't know what. But he pressed on, the Packer hauling the sled along slowly without pause.

As the great structure loomed ever closer, the man in the vest began talking, insisting that they try something else. But he was out numbered for votes and guns, and so remained at the back of the sled, his feet hanging over the edge with his back turned to the oncoming rock formation. As they pushed further, the sand began to slip away, giving way to more of a rocky structure, jagged and dark shards etched and emerged from the sand that matched the same appearance of the Shard.

The second man, the oldest of the group, sat down next to the younger on the driver seat at the front of the sled, looking onwards at the great looming wall of darkness.

"You know, my mother used to tell me stories about this place. I'm sure yours did too. Even if cutting through the Shard is the shortest way back home, how do we know what path to take?"

The young man nodded.

"I don't know. But I don't see why we can't just hole up in here without going too far into it. We just need to wait out the storm is all."

The older man looked behind him briefly, turning back and speaking in a whisper.

"Listen carefully to me right now kid. My mother told me about what goes on in there. Called them Mirages. People, places, and things that don't make sense get into a man's head, and you see things, like in the desert. If you see anything like that, you turn around and run. That place, it isn't right. It plays tricks."

The young man raised his eyebrows.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"A little heads up. Listen, I don't want any of this to end in a shooting. But the fellow at the back, he'll get more desperate the closer we get to going inside. And he's damn fast with a gun. And I know he wouldn't hesitate to shoot me or you. But right now, his temper's holding. But it won't forever. I'm going to give you a pack, a cut of the rich folk clothes, and some food and water. And then you're going in there. You can make it."

"What, on foot?"

The older man suddenly whipped the younger in the back of the head with his pistol butt. He stood up, as the sled came to a stop and the Packer turned to see what the commotion was. As the young man lost consciousness, the older man loomed over him.

"Good luck kid."

As the young man came to, he was vaguely aware of the feeling of sand blowing across his face. He opened his eyes, to the dark, jagged, uncomfortable ground that he lay on. Not even a few feet away, the now massive, towering wall of the Shard stood above him. As he looked up into the sky, nearly dark as night, he could tell that the sandstorm was passing, high above. But the Shard remained untouched.

A sudden clapping broke the silence and caught his attention. He looked back down, as an ancient man, a tribal wanderer of the sands, leaned up against a walking stick as he clapped. The ancient and withered man watched him, a smile on his face, as the young man reached up for help. The smile on his face was deeply unsettling, as the blind man gazed forward endlessly.

"A thief you are. They will take everything from you."

He couldn't understand right now. His head hurt, and his vision wasn't all back yet. But the ancient man looked directly into his eyes, and smiled, and began laughing. He laughed, with abandon, always watching him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered the older man's words, and fear woke him up. He scrambled up to his feet, and began moving. The man's laughter followed him, but eventually, faded as the young man ran.

He ran in whatever direction he could, along the dark imposing wall of cold stone, until he stumbled into an opening. A crack in the great Shard, one of the many passageways gouged all through the great anomaly. He stood at the entrance to the crack, peering off into the distance. He couldn't make out where the path led. Laughter broke the silence like a whip, and he was shoved in the back, and suddenly he was falling.

He fell a good few feet onto sand. He rolled over, onto his back. The fall had dazed him, shaken his bones up. As if he was drunk, he reached for his pistol, as the ancient man stood high above him, laughing as he leaned on his walking stick. His eyes watered and his aim faltered, and darkness crept up the sides of his vision again as his head rested on the sand, and all went dark.

The wind traveled through the Shard's passageways, howling in long, traveling echoes as it passed through. He woke to that sound in the distance, looking up to two solid walls on either side of him, cold and dark. The back of his head hurt. And then he remembered. His back was sore as he rested on a packsack. He rolled over, into a sitting position as he leaned up against the cold stone wall at his side.

The older man was true to his words. Water. Some food. And his cut of what they had stolen. He pulled the canteen of water out of his pack, and unscrewed it, pressing the lip to the back of his head as water splashed against it. The sensation calmed him. But it did not ease his worry. The old man was right. So was the one in the vest. This place wasn't right. And now he had to go through it. There wasn't a chance in hell he'd be able to scale the drop he'd fallen from.

As he mulled things over, he was oblivious to two sets of footprints in the sand that approached him. They were silent and ghostly. As he packed the water back into his bag, he turned his head, and saw them. Two sets of tracks, side by side, facing him. They had stopped just inches away from him. He squinted, reaching out. Nothing was there. But as he stared at nothing, one set of footprints began moving, around him.

He reached for his holster, to find that his gun wasn't there, but in the sand at his side. The footprints stood near it, and he watched, disbelief and fear on his eyes, as his pistol began floating. It was held, in midair, and twirled around on its trigger. Shock compelled him to reach for his sword, as he drew it on thin air. His pistol dropped to the sand.

A silence filled the canyon, something deep, and unsettling. Unnatural, despite the howling of the wind through passages. He reached out, white knuckled to his pistol, grasping it as if it were on fire. He stood up, watching the darkened walls around him. He shouldered his pack, but kept his sword and pistol out. He needed to move. This place was wrong.

The young man pushed forwards, despite not knowing where he was going. He pushed forward through the canyon passageway he found himself in, with no end in sight. Occasionally, he would look up, far above the imposing rock, to see sand, blowing over the canyon he was in. The storm was at its full height and power now. And yet it passed over the Shard, like it wasn't even here.

He pushed forward, through the endless winding corridor of stone that he was trapped in. As he rounded a corner, he nearly bumped into a woman. In fact he did. She was clad in some fancy dress, and her hair was prim and proper. As he bumped into her, he was shoved back violently by her, to his shock. Anger creased her face, as she started shouting at him.

"You! Do you have any idea how hard I work! I cook and I clean, and take care of everything while you're away, and when you come home you don't even say thank you!"

He held his hands up, shaking them.

"No miss, you've got the wrong guy! I don't even know who you are! I'm sorry!"

The woman shoved him, hard.

"My mother was right about you! Well no more!"

The woman slid a ring off her finger, and threw it at him. It impacted against his vest. He was scared. He held his pistol up, but the woman showed no fear, and began yelling at him again, a mad glint in her eyes.

"Oh you want to fight! You want to push me around!?"

The woman drew an inch long knife from thin air.

"No more!"

His hand was shaking as the woman charged him, psychotic rage in her scream, until he felt a force pull him aside, knocking him to the ground. The woman charged straight forwards, and then, was gone. Like that, she was just gone. His heart pounded in his chest, as he lay on the ground, staring down the passageway. There was nothing. No screams, or wails. Silence as the wind howled through the Shard.

He stayed like that, for some time, until a force gripped his hand. He was pulled up to his feet, and he felt something against him. His clothes were brushed off of sand. He stared at the ground, and realized that two sets of footprints where around him again. He shook his head.

"I don't understand. I don't know what's happening......"

Something cupped itself over his mouth, silencing him. He tried to look, to see, anything, but nothing was there. It felt like a hand though. His gun was ripped from his hand, and tossed through the air, where it suddenly stopped and was held there, once more as it twirled on its trigger. His blade was picked up from the ground and floated as if it were being held.

He was suddenly turned over, forced to turn on the spot. His pack was ripped from his back, as his arms were held back. He didn't know what was happening. He couldn't even tell if this was real. But he stayed silent, as his pack was opened, and dumped onto the sand. Clothes fell out onto the sand, as that was the only thing opened and pulled out. He turned on the spot, as the pack was thrust out to him.

He had no choice. He didn't know if what was happening was real or not, but he took the pack in hand, and watched as the miscellaneous pile of clothes on the sand began to move and shift, as if they were being looked through. He watched, wide eyed, as a glove belonging to a noble woman suddenly filled out. Long and black, up to one's elbow. He couldn't believe what he was seeing.

The black gloved hand gestured at him, wriggling its fingers, before giving him a thumbs up. The sword that floated nearby exchanged hands, and now the black gloved hand held it. Nearby, he watched as a mask, used for parties and the like, was fitted around nothing, and stayed in place. The pistol that floated in the air was twirled once more.

He stood, in utter silence, watching in fear, and some perverse fascination, as the clothes were looked through, picked, and then filled into shape. A noble woman's clothes animated before him, grasping his sword in their elegantly gloved hands, as a corset and dress along with garters acted just like a person.

Beside the other, a nobleman took shape, clad in an outstanding vest and suit to match, twirling the gun in its hands as the masked face stared at him, with no eyes or face of which to watch him with. The apparition pointed a gloved hand to his gun, and the sword held up in the air by its partner, and waved a finger at him. He was pressed against the wall, terrified. But he found the will to speak.

"I... I don't understand."

The bundle of clothing marked as the noblewoman pointed at him, and twirled a gloved finger where its head would be, before it suddenly drew his sword up, and stabbed itself through the midsection to his shock. The blade passed through the clothes cleanly with no effort, and slid out, nothing staining the blade in its wake. He slid down against the wall at his backside.

"I'm going insane. I've gone mad!"

The nobleman waved a finger at him, before gesturing, asking him to follow. The two apparitions before him stood, waiting for him. He didn't really have a choice then. But, for the moment, whatever these things were, they hadn't hurt him. Unlike everything else in the Shard so far, they seemed friendly. He stood up slowly, as the nobleman reached out, pulling him up to his feet. A gloved hand patted him on the shoulder, and he looked into the faceless mask as it stared at him. He nodded slowly.

"Lead the way."

For what seemed like days and uncountable nights, he followed the apparitions through the maze of canyons in the hellish Shard. The longer he spent here, the worse he felt. He was led through seemingly endless passageways of solid, dark rock that seemed to loom down upon him, wanting to trap him. But the apparitions never stopped, as if they knew the way.

But he needed rest. And when he was so tired that he couldn't manage any longer, they stopped, and stood watch over him. They never spoke, never tired, and as best as he could tell, were completely invisible. He knew not what they were. But as time passed, he became thankful for their presence. Lumps of animated clothing bringing him comfort. He must be mad.

As he rested against the cold dark wall on one side of this endless labyrinth, he looked up, to the dark sky as sand blew over the towering cliffs above him. It seemed like there was no hope, no light in this place. And as his eyes stirred in the twilight, he opened them to a sudden burst of light and sound. He rose from his position on the floor, startled into action.

All around him, men and women danced, on hardwood floors of a great tavern. Laughter, dance, and singing, the highlife of a bar at midnight. As he stood in awe of the warm light, and the dancing crowds around him, he was bumped hard by a large drunken man. He fell to the floor, as pain traveled up his side. The great lug of a man turned, squinting at him through thick brows and a skull that looked as thick as rock.

"Oi! Get out f' the damn way!"

He stood back up, staggering to his feet.

"I'm sorry. I'm just... tired."

The mountain of a man peered down at him.

"You'd best be leaving this place pal, or I'll throw you out with the damn Packers!"

Before he even had a chance to say anything, the mountain of a man suddenly pulled a pistol out of his belt.

"What did you say to me you little gutless coward!?"

The huge man picked him up by the scruff without effort, and the young man began to wrestle with the huge man's iron like grip. The crowds had stopped, and as a chill descended on the bar, he was aware that every single person had stopped moving. They were watching him, in cold silence. As the huge man pushed his pistol up against his chin, every last person in the tavern began to laugh hysterically. They smiled and laughed, their gaze cold, and dead, watching him.

He struggled with the pistol in his grip, with the giant man who he himself was laughing, his expression dead yet all the same, hysterical. He pushed with all his strength, nudging the pistol to the side, and in a flash of light, sound, and smoke, he was blasted back against the wall. He blinked his eyes in pain, as he looked down, to find himself holding a pistol. His pistol. Had he taken it from the apparition? He slid down the wall, leaving a trail of blood in his wake, as he sat in the sand.

Beside him the two apparitions stood, only briefly, before acting. As the nobleman bent down, the young man watched as a glove went lifeless, dropping to the sand. Cold flooded the bullet wound in his shoulder, and with a sudden jerk, every last bit of shrapnel was ripped out of him by nothing. Pain greeted him intensely and he yelled to the dark towering cliffs above.

The nobleman stood up, slipping the glove back on as the bits of metal fell to the sand, laced in blood. In its other hand it carried the pistol that had fallen from the young man's hand. The noble woman passed the sword it carried over to the nobleman. Reaching down and using surprising strength for the nimble form that wore the clothes, he was hauled up to his feet, and partially supported on one shoulder.

The apparitions continued walking, and he struggled to take steps with the noblewoman's clothing. He was in pain, and tired. Confused, as he rested against nothing but yet still felt like he was resting up against another body.

"I... don't.....what is this place.....doing to me?"

The clothing reached forward, patting him on his good shoulder that it was carrying him on. He lurched forward slowly, step by step.

"I don't... understand... why are you helping me? What are you?"

The bundle of clothing brought a gloved hand up to where he could only assume a mouth was, holding a finger up to invisible lips, telling him to remain silent. He did as was asked, and continued to take slow stumbling steps forward, as blood dripped across the sand after each step.

He stumbled along, in a daze. He barely knew what was happening. As he walked on, continuing to be dragged by the apparition supporting his shoulder. The dark passageways phased in and out of reality around him, and he began to see more people. Some were familiar, clad in the same style of clothing as he himself, bearing the same manners. Some were alien to him, from far off lands, continents across the seas.

But they were all the same. His mind lost track of where he was, as the environment shifted around him like a maze, and for brief moments, he fit into these worlds and places, almost as if he were a puzzle piece. And then, the world shattered. As he walked through the distortions, the occupants were all the same. Their unending gaze, vacant and cold, as they watched him, passing through. And always, they laughed. Their cold, dead faces upturned in smiles, as they attacked him. Guns, knives, fists.

He was being whittled down with every step. The apparitions didn't appear to be able to see who or what he was fighting. But they could tell. A sharp shove, or a slap to the face brought him back. But sometimes, they weren't always fast enough. As he was dragged along, he brought a hand up to his cheek, smearing blood in his hand from a cut delivered by a knife. He didn't understand why. But he felt sick to his stomach, like he wanted to curl up and die.

The two apparitions continued pulling him along, until suddenly, a weight felt like it removed itself from him. As he stepped out from the dark twisting passageway behind him, he stepped into a wide clearing, and then, everything changed.

The light, the tone of the rock, no longer as imposing and imprisoning. And water. A large pool of water sat, glimmering a deep, clear blue like the warmest oceans off the coasts. He was hurt. Tired and worn. But this clearing, the very sight of it, warmed him. And the feeling in his stomach, that sick, twisting feeling began to fade and weaken.

The apparitions set him down gently in the sand, and he was content to lay there, as one of them took his canteen away to the small clearing of water. The noblemen stood beside him, still holding both of his weapons in hand. He looked up to the figure, speaking from dry lips and a sore throat.

"It feels different here."

The noblemen tipped his hat as he nodded, holstering the blade in his hand.

"What is this place? What are you?"

The nobleman simply shrugged, standing guard over him as the figure of the noblewoman returned with his canteen. He reached out as it was handed to him, and he took it, watching the two apparitions.

"Thank you. I think I'm going to rest a while. Stay here. I like it here."

He hardly managed to drink much from his canteen before he felt tired. Too tired to do anything. The last thing he saw was the two apparitions standing watch over him, still keeping him safe.

His eyes opened to the skies above, watching as sand continued to howl over the Shard, a darkened shadow cast over everything. He didn't know how long he was out for. But he felt better. Not in top shape. But he'd take this over what he'd come through before.

He curled his hands in the sand, feeling the smooth grain, soft, and warm even. He pulled himself up, propping himself up against the dark, jagged stone wall at his back. As he looked out to the clearing beyond, at the pool of calming deep blue water, a spring, his eyes fell upon something.

There, standing on top of the water of the spring, were the apparitions. The nobleman and the noblewoman. Dancing. He couldn't believe his eyes. The clothing animated, moved and twirled in an elegant dance as the two stepped and twirled together. Watching them dance put him at ease, and he enjoyed watching specks of water flicked through the air as their boots held purchase on the spring as if it were solid ground.

And then, he slapped himself for being so stupid. He knew what they were. Mirages. True Mirages. The old man in the cart had it wrong. The things in the Shard. They were evil. Twisted and foul. And they hurt. Attacked and pushed and shoved and hated. But these two, dancing across the water so playfully....

He remembered. The People of the Sand, ancient survivors of this land, tribal and entwined with the old magic that dwelled here called them Mirages. Spirits of the sand. Tricksters. Playful. They often played tricks on travelers out here. Tricked them. Played annoying little pranks and jokes. Stole things.

But they were never harmful. They weren't evil and twisted like the darkness that dwelled and emanated from the Shard he was trapped in. And he could see it now. When he first encountered them. The twirling of his pistol. The playful gestures of their hands. These spirits, Mirages. They were playful and fun loving.

How they found him in here, he wasn't sure. But he was suddenly extremely thankful for their presence and their aid. But it made him wonder. How truly evil and twisted was this place, if these spirits, playful ghosts on the wind and sands, took pity on him? Helped him through it to where he was now. He would have never made it alone so far without their help.

Granted. He was still stuck in here. But this pocket. This spring felt pure. Like it was unscathed and untouched. A resting point. And the Mirages could leave him at any time. But as he watched them playfully dance, clothing belonging to nothing but thin air, dancing and twirling, he didn't think they'd abandon him.

He rested against the wall, content to stay here and simply watch their show in silent respect. Water flicked in small splashes as the pair moved their feet in elegant matching steps, and matched a tempo and rhythm he couldn't hear. The dance become more exotic, more playful and loose, as suddenly, a glove was stripped free and tossed aside onto the sand. A mask or a hat. A coat.

The two danced, flinging aside clothing until to his very eyes, nothing remained. The flicks and splashes of water stopped. And suddenly he felt very alone. The creeping darkness and anxiety of that fear being realized crept up on him, only to be warmly and suddenly driven away as footsteps in the sand approached him, two pairs.

He sighed, smiling. He was worried there for a second. Something tapped his shoulder. An invisible force that he could either see or touch. It tugged and pulled on the straps of his backpack. He nodded to thin air.

"You want this? Here. Take whatever you need."

He tossed the pack away from himself, out to the sand and he watched as footsteps traced after it. The pack was held up in the air on invisible strings, opened, and upturned, dumping the contents out to the sand once more. He leaned back and shook his head. Clothing. They'd robbed a clothing carriage.

He was here now because of it. He sighed. What the hell was he doing with himself? He was a young man. Strong, healthy. And he knew he was all right. Because on raids were other men would threaten and beat others and fight, kill even, he held a steady hand. A steady hand on his gun but never fired.

Maybe that was why he was just a driver. He didn't have it in him to really shoot, if it came down to it. He set his head down. If he got out of here, alive. He was going to change things. These sands, ancient and worn, soaked with the blood of many. They weren't for him.

He looked back up to watch the Mirages continue playing and casually tossing clothes aside. Clothes of every type and make. But all very high quality. He watched as a glove, laced material, oh so delicate looking, filled out and a hand slender and feminine, waved at him.

He scratched his head, but waved back. He couldn't tell with these things. Another matching glove, long and black, sleek and lacy, filled out. Two hands twiddled their fingers, lowering down to the sand as they found something that interested them. Like the gloves, a leg suddenly filled out as it slid a long, lacy black sock up, and then another.

He continued watching the spectacle. Whatever made them happy? But as he sat with his back against the wall, the mood of things suddenly changed. The Mirage in front of him, that was partially clothed, waved slender black gloved fingers at him, before tracing them down its legs.

He smiled. Well. They always did like to play jokes. Make fun of people it seemed. This one, he was sure of it, was the noblewoman. The stockings danced around in the sand as hands reached down and pulled something small up with them. Stockings turned sideways and one foot was raised, as the skimpy black material slid up the firm leg, so easily defined as that of a woman's but invisible.

He watched as it slid up the legs of the Mirage and filled out, perfectly defined as if there was indeed a woman standing before him. The back string of the skimpy little undergarments was pulled, straining tightly as if it could go no further, and then let go as it snapped into place on an invisible backside.

The sight and display suddenly made him aware of what was going on. Because as he looked over the form that stood before him, defined and shaped only in clothing that clung to it and remained tight, Mirages were quite fond of teasing it seemed. The lacy black thong stretched to its limit so tightly as invisible hips wore it.

And finally, rummaging through the sand a matching dark, lacy bra found its way upwards, slipping itself through arms and around an invisible chest, before struggling to do the back up. The bra strained tightly, as if it were just a size too small. Mirages REALLY liked teasing it seemed.

Because in the wake of air and nothing that held all the tight clothing together to resemble the curves and shape of a woman, his mind began playing tricks on him, as he watched the bra strain so tightly, his mind filling in the blanks as it was easy to imagine a woman, curves and mounds of soft supple flesh struggling to be set loose under a bra that tight.

He shook his head. He wasn't sure what to do. He wasn't going to leave this place without the help of the Mirages. But he had to admit, the show that one of them was putting on for him......made him uncomfortable. And suddenly, things got even more uncomfortable as a gloved hand pointed at him, curling fingers and motioning a hand to come and help.

The collection of black lacy clothes turned its backside to him and a finger pointed to the straps of the bra. He sighed. He'd play along. It was just clothing. Standing up from his resting place, he walked over to the bundle of clothing. He rolled his eyes as he grasped at the bra straps.

"You know, I know that.....you like playing tricks and all that."

He pulled on the straps and felt weight and resistance. Weight that was pendulous and firm, like it was being squished together tightly.

"And, I can't thank you enough for helping me, I mean really, I wouldn't be here right now if it weren't for you guys."

His fingers worked to tie the laces all together and he looked down, quite a mistake on his part as the black lacy thong curved outwards at the peak of a backside and then inwards along hips and a spine that could have curved so nicely. He looked back up, eyes averted. If this was a visible woman she would be quite.......curvaceous.

"But, do you think.....we could leave soon? We're still trapped in here."

His fingers completed lacing up the tight straps, and as he did, something pressed against his back. He paused, inhaling sharply. So that's what the other one was doing.....

Breasts, supple and firm, pressed themselves against the back of his shirt, squishing against him in the material that held them. Hands snaked around him, careful in their movement as he still had a wound in his shoulder. The Mirage in front of him moved forwards now, trailing a single gloved finger along for him to follow, swaying the invisible hips that bound the skimpy piece of material in place as it rocked and swayed. The hands clasped around him were invisible, but all the same the invisible force of a woman's body pressed against his back, urging him forwards.

This seemed to have gone beyond simple teasing now, as he stepped forwards on the sand towards the blue pool of water. And admittedly, he had no idea what to do. But he knew they weren't out to hurt him. So maybe it was best to play along with the Mirages right now. His eyes fell on the skimpy black triangle suspended over stockings, swaying so slowly and sensually.

Maybe that wasn't such a bad thing right now.

The Mirages herded him along forwards towards the spring, the black laced one sensually leading him onwards, as the one in the back, who had circled around him playfully several times, pushed and ushered him along. The Mirage at his backside was largely invisible, but had made its own playful attempts at teasing him, donning a white transparent dress, only a simple under layer or night garment belonging to a woman of the night.

He had to admit. The vested man's sense of humor in packing his cut with the majority of women's clothing was paying off for him now, as the white garmented Mirage's form was displayed and curved through the transparent material so well, even more enticing than the black, tight straps and clothing of the first.

Where imagination saw lacy black straps and imagined how tightly a body was flaunted in them, the long transparent, flowing dress caught and stuck to curves in the wind, hips, the smooth contours of a stomach, again, if a real woman was here now she would be a sight to see.

As he was herded along, invisible hands pulled at his clothing, sliding it down and away from him. While he was uncomfortable, put in a state of unease at the sudden actions of the Mirages, the sense of invisible hands, creeping across his skin as an invisible force, was oddly relaxing. And finally, he was helped up into the blue pool of water by both Mirages, and slid down into a world of something else.

The surrounding rock was cold and jagged, twisted and imposing all around him but the water he slipped into eased him completely, being mildly warm, calming in its deep clear blue. But rather than rest like he wanted to, to sit in this spring forever and relax, the Mirages continued their playful actions. He was left alone, if only briefly, as the Mirages played a new game.

The black clad one, wearing those lacy gloves, scooped up water, tossing it across the thinly veiled white one. The two commenced in a casual dance of spraying water up into the air, until the clothing of both was sopping wet. And now the game changed as the Mirages closed in on him.

Wet clothing clung to each of their invisible forms, now accentuating their features even more. Hips swayed together as the two approached him and his eyes couldn't help but be drawn to them. They were invisible, as always. But his imagination, his eyes, filled in the gaps and played tricks on him.

The white veiled Mirage's form was clung to so tightly by the dress, so tight that every curve was displayed to the point of perfection. And likewise, the black one made a show of pulling on straps that slapped back into place across invisible features. The two no longer elegantly floated or walked across the water, but waded through the deeper sections of the spring to him.

As the white veiled Mirage moved in, it became apparent to him now that their intent was not only to tease any longer. Through the sopping wet material of its dress, on curves so round and sculpted, impressions of nipples poked through the material as the sopping wet dress stepped over him, before lowering itself to rest on top of him as he laid back in the shallow end of the spring. Weight, tangible weight pressed against him and invisible hands caressed across him. The black clad Mirage was direct in its approach, snaking lacy hands across his legs and up to a prize that it seemed intent on having.

In the calm of the shallow water, of this pure spring, his wounds and pains were absent. And now the awkwardness of watching the Mirage's games dissolved as clothing, filled out in luscious curves pressed itself against him, the white veiled Mirage pressing luscious mounds against his chest that rippled its dress and he felt the sopping wet material cling to him, imposed across his body by an invisible woman's body that was so keen to be pressed against him.

And likewise, he gasped as the black clad Mirage made no attempts in subtlety, running lace clad fingers, so soft and delicate across his skin, gripping him tightly and succeeding in getting what the two wanted. They lived up to their names. Mirages. For he couldn't see the bodies of the women but his eyes were mesmerized at the sight of them, lost at every curve that was shown, sculpted so finely on nothing but thin air and accentuated through wet clothing.

He yearned at the sight of them, drawn to them as they so playfully teased him, as his hands found purpose, gripping the hips of the white Mirage on top of him. Through sopping wet clothes his hands found purchase, resistance and smoothness of the wet material. He pressed into the material, and it felt as if he really was grasping at the hips of a woman.

It was one part fascination as he waved a hand through thin air where the dress ended, feeling nothing, but then returning to the supple features of the sopping wet dress that loomed in front of him. Pressing on the transparent material yielded the bounce and smoothness of skin, and his hands became occupied quickly, running along the sopping wet dress to cup and trace invisible curves.

His own actions seemed to spur on the playful nature of both Mirages, as the black clad one shifted, sitting down in the water. Two lacy clad legs raised themselves up and presented invisible toes, wiggling at him before both finding themselves at his thighs, the soft material of the clothing gripping him with invisible toes. He gasped as the wet smooth material of the Mirage's stocking clad feet massaged, up and down gently, displaying flexible toes that were as playful as its hands.

To make things more pressing, the Mirage's own hands joined in with her feet, stroking alongside her massaging. Teasing was out of the question now as the white Mirage on top of him slid down, and pressed her own backside against him. The wet material of her dress pressed against him, wrapping and pressing around him as if he was now pinned and sandwiched between her smooth backside. The feeling of wet clothing on him, pinning him to a luscious lower body, and flexible toes and fingers massaging and stroking was too much.

He arrived quickly at his first climax, much to the amusement of the black clad mirage whose hands pressed themselves up to an invisible head and lips to make the silent motions of a giggle, while her feet still continued their assault. He'd arrived at his first climax but as the Mirages continued their playful game with him, he had a feeling that they wouldn't let it be the only one.

By now he certainly didn't object. This game of theirs was most enjoyable.

True to his thoughts, the Mirages continued. They let him rest, recover and relax, as they retreated and put on a show for him. Not only did they like playing games with him but they enjoyed playing games with themselves. The black Mirage playfully danced around the white one, pressing itself against the backside of the white dress to cup one of its shapely breasts that showed so easily through the material, a black clad hand running down to the thighs of the dress, caressing the folds of clothing that rested in between them.

It was a show that he enjoyed, watching as the white dress fell to invisible knees in the water, being relentlessly teased by the black one. But sadly, there were limitations it seemed. The animated clothing could display and act like a body possessed it, but it could never reach a peak, never climax. And so the game changed quickly, very much like the mood of the Mirages themselves, as they found themselves returning to him.

A playful game commenced of the two grinding their clothes against him, their backs pressed against one another as he felt the telltale shape of two women pressing so very tightly to him, or watching as black clad legs wrapped themselves around the hips of the white dress and the two ground their hips together over top of him. He was teased and rubbed against over and over by smooth wet clothing holding invisible bodies, and helpless not to enjoy it.

The sandwiching of cleavage together on tight wet clothing to massage him, or the bodies of the playful mirages simply draping themselves over him and caressing him with invisible hands. In the warmth of the pool he relaxed and let them do as they pleased. But still, he needed rest. Weight pulled on his eyes and eventually he closed them, falling back into the shallow depths of the spring, content and at peace.

The Mirages, eventually coming to realize that their point of interest was no longer awake, playfully discarded their clothing and found something else to occupy their time with. But they still remained to watch over him. Because this was not the end of the road. He still needed to finish this, once and for all.

And he did. Donning his clothing and readying himself, he looked over to the clothing that stood at his side. The gentlemen, twirling his pistol so elegantly, and the noblewoman, so composed and confident with a sword. He nodded at them in silent thanks. He was ready. He pushed forward, beyond the spring, that one place of peace and purity, and back into the oppressive walls of the Shard. He stepped back into those twisted passageways, and faced the continuing nightmare of the Shard.

Inhabitants showing up from thin air, dragging him into their world, their illusion, and then trying to kill him with dead set faces that were blank of any emotion save for the token, laughing, mocking smile and their dead grey eyes. He was pulled through it all by the two apparitions at his side, dragged along by his feet if they had to, and finally, at long last, through the increasingly nightmarish, twisted and warped realities that made him question his sanity, a light showed itself.

Out beyond the twisted passage his eyes found light, and sand dunes visible off in the distance. This was it. This was the end. He'd made it. And like some dream he walked forwards, running for the light at the end of the twisted passageway, an end to the insanity. As he broke away from the oppressive walls of the Shard and looked back, he found both Mirages gone. Vanished into thin air. Something was off. Something felt.....too easy. But his attention was drawn as across the sandy ground he heard something.

The scuffing of a sled's tracks on sand and rock, and he turned to see a Packer in the distance, slowly making its way along. He was stunned at his luck, dumfounded as he looked at the sled and the old beast as it pulled everything along. He broke off into a run towards the Packer, his steps falling short as he realized something critical.

That was his sled.....

And behind it, as the Packer hauled everything along, a man was being dragged, having fallen out of the sled but catching his boots on the reins. He rushed over towards the man to find that it was the older one. He was beaten, scarred and cut, but seemed okay.

The Packer stopped in his presence, flicking its long tongue at him, happy to see him again, as he passed it by and bent down to the older man. He shook the man, trying to rouse him, and with great relief, watched as the older man's eyes opened and his face lit up with a great smile.

"Oh by the sands! Kid! I'd thought you'd died!"

"What about you! What the hell happened out there!?"

He pulled the older man up to his feet, dusting him off. The older man cracked his neck and stretched, looking over everything.

"You don't look so good yourself kid. What the hell'd you go through?"

He couldn't help but chuckle.

"Come on. We'll swap stories on the way home."

The older man nodded.

"Hold up. I need to rest a bit. Sit down with me, have a drink. By gods it looks like you need one."

The two sat down on the back of the sled, and the older man found a canteen, as likewise, he went digging through the remains of his own pack and pulled out his canteen. A silence was shared as the two drank together, resting. The older man spoke up as he set his canteen down.

"I'm sorry, kid."

"Sorry for what?"

"Hitten' ya in the back like that. Hell if I'd have known you'd come out looking like you do......."

The man snorted.

"I would've let ya take your chances with us in the ruins."

"Do I really look that bad?"

"Ya kid. You do. What the hell happened in there?"

The older man's eyes fell on the wall of the Shard which sat only a few hundred meters away from them.

"The stories were right. I don't want to talk about it."

The older man nodded.

"Fair enough kid."

"Hey. What happened to quickdraw?"

"Somethin' bad kid. Somethin' bad."

The older man's gaze stared out to the sands beyond.

"We tried our luck in the ruins. Holed up as the storm passed us over."

The man paused.

"Those ruins.....they're old. A lot of old folk's tales about them. But they've got a lot of old magic running in them. Old guards walk their halls still. Magic keepin' them traps and constructs alive after all this time."

"Guess we both lucked out, huh?"

"Yep. This whole damn run was nothing but trouble. We got ambushed as we slept. Guy in the vest got smashed and ripped apart. Hell. I got beaten up something bad too. Snapped my spine and tried to crawl my way outside. I got away from them damn things but I couldn't do it. So I picked up my gun and I blew my brains all over the walls."

Ice ran up his veins as he turned and looked over to the man beside him. A token, empty smile that was as dead as it could get met him and eyes that stared out to infinity watched him as the old man laughed hysterically. He pushed himself off the wagon and fell into the sand at his feet as he backed away, scrambling to get away.

The man watched him and laughed endlessly, until he felt himself being grabbed as he retreated, fighting to break free until a gloved hand slapped itself across his face. He blinked, looking up to the noblewoman as the nobleman held him. He looked over to the sled in terror, seeing nothing there. The Packer shifted as it turned at the commotion, flicking its tongue at him.

He sighed, being helped up to his feet by the by the Mirages, as they dusted him off and walked him back to the sled. They ushered him into it in silence and he stepped up to the seat. The noblewoman's clothes went around and patted the Packer on the head affectionately as the nobleman handed him the reins.

The Mirages stepped away from him, but both tipped their hats to him and waved, before ushering off the slow Packer. There were no words to be said by him as the last images replayed in his head. All he could do was wave, grateful for the presence of the two apparitions who had saved his life. As he turned away their clothing blew away on the wind and he was left alone.

When he returned home in silence, the small, rough and tumble community centered around a small rocky outcropping and oasis in the sands, he never spoke a word of what happened. But he made it clear to all that he had gone through the Shard. He became well known in the community as one of the only survivors to pass through it. But not without scars.

They called him half mad. Thought he was crazy. But he knew where he stood. He retired his gun. He never stepped foot out to another raid again. And when and if he did travel, his eyes found themselves fleeing from the sight of the Shard, and he stayed far, far away from it. But while they called him half mad, mainly because he retired his gun and opened up a clothing shop, there was no denying that he was an impressive tailor.

His clothing became known, and quite famous all across the land as being almost like a work of art. People flocked to the community and imports and trade boomed because of him. And despite how valuable and wealthy his works became, his caravans were never robbed. Not even once. In all the years that he worked, all of his caravans traveled safely through the sands and ruins.

Nobody knew why. But he did. Because he personally travelled with every caravan himself. And as they crossed the sands, he made an offering every time. Letting clothes blow out to the winds and sand dunes, elegant materials, beautifully crafted. It was part of his ritual. The half mad tailor.

He never spoke a word of what happened in the Shard. But his eyes watched the sands, always.

Because if he looked far enough, some days he could swear that the sand itself danced.

Out here, in the ruins, ancient and worn down to nothing, where blood was spilled in acts of survival and ancient magic's, powerful and surviving the eons, and the ever dark presence of the Shard, was one sliver of hope.

One sliver of something special and pure, in the old legends of the People of the Sand.

But your eyes had to be quick because like a mirage, it vanished on the wind.

And your eyes said that the sands were playing tricks on you.

But he knew, the watchful eyes of something kind watched you back.