This time, he truly wasn’t lost. Georges trekked up to the sand-laden border just as noontime was slipping into evening, when the air was soft with comforting warmth instead of stagnant, scalding heat. It was a wide expanse of white hills and sickly sky which greeted him foremost, a large bolt of desert on the map that he had been so gratefully blessed with. The scent of a border marked his stop, so Georges slugged the wicker basket he had with him a little closer.
“Hello?” the accented Frenchman called, just making his presence known. His basket consisted of things from blankets to daggers to herbs, food goods, and knickknacks; assembled himself to aid him, because he was eager to meet some new faces.