In the mouth of one of the larger tents sat an old man, with a baby girl, a close descendant, on his knee. She was not his daughter or granddaughter. Instead, she was the offspring of one of his brothers who had stayed behind in the desert while he had gone off on his adventure-a voyage into the mouth of greatness. Her tiny arms waved but she was silent, as was he. The old man was named Torc and he had been cursed by some freak of nature with a life that had spanned almost two hundred and fifty seasons. He had been a traveler, a wanderer, a powerful man, and a madman during his long and eventful life: he had been a slave, a leader, a fool, and he had been loved, though rarely. He had pursued his adventures while his brother had stayed behind in the desert and had a family, tended his animals and waited for his wayward brother's return. As befitted Torc's final station in life, he was dressed in a black cloak that seemed to hint at a former glory. His hair and beard were sparse but long and straggling, and his face was deeply etched by the sun, sand, and winds. ...

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