A legend tumbles through the rocky desert of a secluded nation, it whistled with a hum and ends with a bang. The smell of smoke powder drifts in the air, and the acrid stench of blood stains the sands. The caws of crows and the cackling of hyenas and vultures followed in that man's footsteps. A river of blood traces his footsteps, pooling into his bootprints–a warning to all wanderers.
And the legend walks on, whistling to himself, a cross hanging from his neck and a lone revolver within finger's reach at all times and with every footstep. The killer of saints, they called him, for no village in his path lived to tell the tale. But what could be the cause of his rampage? A test of sanity for the insane.
