The wind blows gently across the sands of Far Harad, its near-lifeless and empty dunes glowing in an orange hue against the evening sunset. Small, shriveled plants dot the landscape beneath the shades of sandstone rocks. Snakes and dark reptillians skitter and slither through the grains to find new shelter; while camels hunker down to rest, and jackals and foxes burrow into the sands to hide themselves in the hot sands that torture them during the day but shield them from the adversary of the cold and ruthless night.
Amongst the heat, the fleeing fauna and the wind stands a sun-kissed, stocky man who hugs close to him a short spear and expresses great care for the small pouches attached to his toned waist. Adorning his figure is an assortment of black and dark red cotton and wool clothes. He wears a black shemagh that covers the entirety of his head and leaves no detail except his jade green eyes and the small, leathery wrinkles around them. His wide shoulders bear a small red scarf though just below his muscled chest is bare. On his arms are bracelets and armbands of thin rope and a mixture of teeth and tusks he collected from the animals of previous hunts. He shifts nervously in his baggy, black trousers that reach down to his knees and leave his calves and feet bare, which sizzle against the hot sand when he stands about for too long.
A sudden sense of loneliness and paranoia sets upon the Haradrim as he realizez the sun is setting far too quickly, and that the world around him is much more empty than he has ever known. The red skies turn to black, and the sands below him become as cold as ice. He curses wildly and looks around for the source of such sorcery, but can only find flashes in the sky that are followed by thunderous rhythms. Rain begins to pour mercilessly upon the sands, the drops hitting as hard as stones and causing the hunter to panic.
He quickly searches for the direction of his home, but fails to find his own tracks and any signs of his fellow hunters. Instead, he lays his eyes upon a group of spotted hyenas. They stare at him with beady eyes, and crooked teeth which supplant ominous and bloody smiles. Their laughs encompass all that the Haradrim can hear, drowning out the heavy rain and the thunder that rocks his skull. He grips at his own shemagh and tears it off, clinging to his face as he begins to lose his mind. He collapses into the sands and rolls onto his back, gazing up at the pitch-black sky to feel the drops slap against his face.
The hyenas encircle him, coming so close that he smells the pungent, rotten flesh that sticks to their teeth. His eyes widen as their animal forms began to shift and blur, and as they take a new shape he whimpers in a mixture of confusion and fear. Some, Orc-kind, menacing and snarling at him; others were Men of Harad that he recognizes, fallen tribesmen and rival warriors, that scold him for his failures to save what he holds dear; and those remaining are Gondorian men in pristine, winged armor staring down at him with eyes as pale as their own fair skin, reaching out with their heavy gloves to seize him as if his life and culture were theirs to take.
The Haradrim lashes out violently, his hands slipping through the forms of these spirits but failing to keep them away. The spirits begin to laugh as if they were still hyenas, their eyes oozing blood and their forms convulsing sporadically. Behind the madness, the rain's ferocity heightens and his ears rip apart at the persistent crashing of the thunder. His heart works heavily as guilt wracks him for his people's loss, burns hatred for the Orcs and their murders, and instills fear for Gondor and its greed. They all reach out to him at once and unsheath vicious weapons of every kind--spears wrapped in the flags of different tribes, broad silver swords adorned with Tengwar script, and rudimentary, crude Orcish axes that are ready to hew him limb from limb.
He screams and writhes as they sink into his skin, drawing no blood but causing his chest to ripple and surge with suffering and torment. Faint pleas for mercy manifest beneath his torture and the raucous storm, the voices mimicking those he loved. Their volume increases, and tears flow from the Haradrim's eyes as he pictures every person he grew up with flayed, stabbed, beaten and run down by the very spirits that tear at him.
The entire world goes black for a few moments until Khazim surges from his bedroll in his tent, his chest and face dripping with sweat. He pats himself briefly to make sure this is reality and attempts to relax himself as he confirms his material being. He grasps his curly black hair and weeps uncontrollably, the weight of his past bearing down upon him as he reflects upon his nightmare.
Outside his tent, the rain strikes harshly and thunder cracks from afar.
