Beneath the ridge of a weathered sandstone formation, the ancient and forgotten remains of the Sanctorium lay concealed, hidden from the eyes of the world. This place, once sacred, was now abandoned to time, its secrets guarded by the relentless desert. The wind howled through the desolate valley, its eerie whistle echoing off the rock walls, carrying with it the stories of both the living and the dead. Tiny grains of sand, carried by the wind, slowly eroding the flesh from the sun-bleached bones of the fallen.
Amidst this desolation stood the Guard of the Puppet and the Goat, warriors bound to the Sanctorium by a duty older than any of them could recall. Tim, one of the Guard, stood among them, a grim look on his face. His hands moved with practiced precision as he cleaned his weapon—a chainsaw, its teeth still slick with the blood of the intruders they had just fought off. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, mingling with the dusty smell of the desert. The remnants of the battle lay around them—mangled bodies, a pile of blood and guts that bore testament to the struggle that had just taken place.
"I guess this was their destiny," Tim murmured, his voice barely audible over the keening wind. "I had no choice. Generations before me gave their lives to defend it. This is my purpose, too, whatever my cousin Warrior #2486 says. We must keep the texts safe."
Tim, a man hardened by years of battle, bore the scars of countless skirmishes. He was not alone in his duty; the other members of the Guard stood with him, their eyes scanning the horizon, ever vigilant. They fought for centuries, defending the Sanctorium from those who sought to defile its sacred grounds.
As Tim wiped the last drop of blood from his chainsaw, he felt a sensation wash over him, something deep and primal. It was like the first cool sip of water after a long pilgrimage across the burning sands to Zaros Oasis. It was a feeling of something ancient, something that had been dormant for far too long. But it wasn't just Tim who felt it. Even Jambiya, Tim's companion, perched on a nearby rock, ruffled her vibrant feathers uneasily, her sharp eyes scanning the horizon.
At that moment, Wizard #2530 emerged from the shadowy depths of the Sanctorium. He was a figure of mystery and power, his robes tattered from years of wandering the sands. Blaise moved with purpose, yet there was a heaviness in his step, as if the weight of centuries bore down upon his shoulders.
Without a word, without even a glance in Tim's direction, Blaise walked past him, heading toward the endless expanse of the desert known simply as The Sand. Tim watched him go, a knot of unease tightening in his gut. He didn't know where Blaise was going or why, but he knew that whatever it was, it would change everything.
Jambiya let out a sharp cry, her wings flapping restlessly. Tim knew she sensed it too. The winds were shifting, and with them, the fate of all who called the Runiverse their home.
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