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The russet red sand swept up into the air, spraying on the figure stood over it, a bleeding artery of the desert.
The lonely figure reached a hand down, halfheartedly brushing the stained swirling sands away from her yellow dress. The damage, however, had already been done. Bright scarlet sports scarred the fabric, increasing in density until the base of the skirt looked to be bleeding itself, the fabric oozing blood like a beast come to life.
The deserts song hummed, as the sands shifted, white gloved hands clawing deep into the trickling ground.
The hunched figure wore a scarf, wrapped around her head, a bright yellow, mirroring the setting sun.
The rust shade stains grew stronger on the gloves while she continued to dig, liquid sliding out from the mourning sands.
When, at last, the figure stood once more, a lone wanderer silhouetted by a high moon, she stood over a grave. The sands, which had floated in the winds, had settled, leaving the blood soaked particles scattered across the desert, yet still clinging tightly to the woman who stood.
She bent once again, brushing sand, a careful, considered motion, off of a small bump in the desert. Beneath was a large coat, splatters of vibrant red reflecting the saddened brown eyes of the woman.
She reached beneath the coat, into cold sands saturated by chilled blood, cautiously raising the mass from underneath.
She turned to the grave, holding the corpse, uncaring of the cloying red that covered her arms, wrists, and ruined gloves, and lowered the form into the grave.
She readjusted the coat, positioning it as if it were a blanket to protect from Wasteland Winds, revealing a soft face, with eyes that she delicately closed.
Then, the sands were readjusted, sprinkled back from whence they came, leaving the desert undisturbed.
The lone wanderer turned her back, leaving only russet red sands, a memory of her presence.