Weariness.

"Water."

He staggered, as though drunk, through the vast desert. His feet shuffled through the sand, little dust clouds forming around his ankles. The only sound to be heard were his own laboured breathing, brought on by fatigue, thirst, and a loss of hope.

Pellets of sand pierces his eyes.

He fell. Yet, to his fatigued mind, it meant nothing. His thoughts were solely on moving forward, and seeking water. His brain could process no other information, nor recall any memory he could've held previously. Now, all that mattered were moving forward and seeking water.

Moving forward and seeking water.

Nothing else.

He crawled, struggling to get back up. His mouth hung limply open, eyes barely open. The desert had taken most of his energy, and it was slowly nibbling on his soul. From afar he would've looked like a cadaver, given unholy strength, making its way through the desert, hollow features and skin stretched thinly against his skeletal being. One might've thought that perhaps necromancy has become a reality.

Water.

He fell again. This time, however, there was no getting up. He couldn't muster the strength to carry on anymore. He remained there, sprawled, listening to his own laboured breathing. His world was dark. No light was able to penetrate his heavy eyelids. His body twitched, but only slightly, as sand continued to sting his unmoving body. The whirr of flying sand slowly faded into the background, as his breathing got louder. He felt himself drifting into a deep sleep, as though hypnotised by his own breathing. Slowly, his sense shut down, until he no longer felt, smelt, or heard anything.

His body drooped, the last of his physical strength consumed by the great desert.