some beller thing i dunno who even cares maybe stuff

The derelict desert plains. A place not known for its safety, or its fair temperature. No, it was a place feared by many, seen as a place unfit for humanity. Second to the Everman's lands, this was a place no sane man would willingly enter. Which, of course, gave rise to the not-so-sane men who called it home. They called themselves treasure hunters. The world called them madmen.

At least, the world used to call them that. Things had been changing lately, in the hot dunes. What had once been legend was now becoming concrete. Mystic, massive structures were found, jutting out of the earth to dizzying heights. Within them, great treasures had been found. Glittering gems, which seemed to stretch on for miles. Repositories of knowledge, sold to the highest bidder. More things which could not be mentioned, but seen, and known to ones self alone.

Yes, many of these treasure hunters had made themselves rich men. Which, in turn, brought a new breed of seekers. Young people from the northern cities, leaving their families and friends behind to seek their fortune. Which brings us to the young man currently taking shelter beneath a dune.

His name was Actop, and he was beginning to wonder whether or not the treasure hunting business was really worth it. Sure, he had seen what came out of this place. Some of his own kin had made themselves fat and happy through plunder in this desolate land. But, he'd found nothing. Six cycles, he'd been scouring the land, and all for naught.

Every night, he went to bed with a blistered back, and each morning he awoke with frozen blisters. In the day, all he seemed to do was wander from place to place, looking for anything interesting besides sand dunes and oddly twisted Spineplants. The one claim he'd made had turned out to be a rusted dome, containing nothing but stinging gas and bones. So, he walked on, and considered whether or not turning back and returning in shame would be better than burning the small patches of unmolested skin that was left.

But this day, it would be different. That is what Actop told himself every night as he went to bed. That even though this day had been a bust, perhaps the next one may be better. Maybe he would find a million jewel-encrusted naked women, or some bread. Bread would be nice.

The next day, things were different.

Actop first noticed the difference when he crawled from his makeshift hole, and looked to the south. Expecting to be greeted by another series of endless dunes, he was surprised by a small black dot appearing to be perched snugly atop one of those sandy hills. It looked like a meaningless speck on the horizon, but to Actop, it represented a light at the end of a really brightly lit and sandy tunnel. Justification for all the time in this hellscape.

So, with renewed vigor, he set off towards the speck of might and righteousness. The sun and heat were still pressing down with persuasive force, but this new determination cast aside any thoughts of surrender. That little speck meant something was still out there, and he was going to plunder it, damn the cost.

Over days, to weeks, he walked towards it, trying to make progress. It was a slow going, over dunes and through shifting sands. The ground would form to his sandals, seeming to drag on them as he went on, telling him to give up. But the speck remained, like a siren extending a hand to Actop's tired ship. He was coming in to port. As the days went by, the speck became more of a dot, and then a fuzzy shape.

Actop stood at the base of the specks dune, looking up towards its now nearly-clear form. For a moment, he considered taking a minute to plan out his final approach, and to take each step with care. Then, he tossed such thoughts to the wind, and scrambled up the dune dauntlessly, making rapid progress as he clawed up, up, and closer to his prize.

The top of the dune was like nothing Actop had ever seen. White, metal husks stood half-buried in sand, with wooden posts outside each one. There were rusted blocks of what might have been another metallic material buried in front of each one, with some flecks of paint clinging to each one like the last survivor of a shipwreck.

In front of each one, a brightly colored staue depicting a strange bird was impaled upon two stands. Static and undamaged by age, they stood guard outside each block, the last residents of whatever this place had been. Actop regarded them for a moment, before plunging into the first husk.

This was his claim. Not as wondrous as the other objects brought from the desert, but it was //something//. A reason to return, not in shame, but with triumph. Tools, strange and rusted, filled his arms as he emerged from his treasure trove. His first thought on returning was imagination of triumph, and grins only victory can bring.

The second, and more pertinent thought, was where the birds had gone. It was this thought he would not have to wait for it to be answered, because the next moment a metal spike was plunged through his skull, the inquiring mind, and out the eye. Actop fell without a sound, save for a small piff as he hit the sand. The pink flamingos rolled him down the hill, and out of their minds.