The desert sun shrined high in those ancient sands in which no civilization dared to inhabit. Only small groups of nomads, foolish or desperate enough dared to cross the desert.

Modern schoolars say that this tribe is slave to superstitions, mysticism, occultistm, shamanism. Those rituals and magic dictate every act of their live. If an organ of a goat looked as much as strange they took it as a bad sign, and didn’t eated that goat.

If the sun was in a strange position that day they didn’t look at it. If the shaman said that you were unfortunate you were to leave the tribe. Superstitions made out of random associations to unlinked things to be sure.

Homever of all those strange omens there is one that particulary catched my interest. If the desert sand came from a particular direction no one was allowed to leave home for no reason what so ever. No matter how urgent or pressing.

The shamans told me of demons inhabiting that part of the desert that came with the sand and the wind to steal men souls and broke their spirit. Even if this belief was absurd everyone was convinced of it as they were convinced that the sun rose in the morning.

As my days there passed my curiosity toward this particulary omen increased. True, strange sounds could be heard when the sand came from that direction but nothing more, what was the cause of that omen? It was so that I leaved the tribe behind for what I believed to be only a few days.

The desert dunes are empty. Traversing the desert, especially alone, is a cruelsome act, that pushes man capacity toward his limits. The sun was high and hot and the sands ever lasting when fate played a trick with me.

Nothing more than a little distraction, a moment of absent mindness, a wrong movement. A moment were my hands betrayed me that many of my flask were emptied. Still to this day I am unsure of how did it happen. I believe that I putted them at the side of the cammel, and maybe while resting or opening them I didn’t close them or something. I was without water in the desert.

I continue to walk, even when my camel left me, and with him, my last supplies. It was in such a hot day that I found myself in the myst of a sand storm. My clothes were torn, I was pushed to the ground, the force of the wind was unbereable, the strange sound of the storm, the vague shapes that I saw, maybe…all those things contributed to what I saw afterwords.

I still went on, retreat and return was not an option now. In the mist of such sandstorm I saw it. At first it was an abstract shape, much like a stain, then as I came closer I saw it more clearly. I know that was only an hallucination, I know that was only an illusion. But still I can vow on my honor that I saw a colossus there. A fallen colossus in mist of the sand storm, and near it there were voices, prayers of ages past. A fallen colossus of no man, of no human being, a colossus with no face. Venerate by long dead ghost who still hunted the earth. I saw them, taking form, bringing strenght out of the leaving to give it to the colossus. Sacrifice what little was left of them so that one day the might collosus might one day rise again. And with each little sacrifice, with each new unfortunate souls who finds themself out in the open when the sand blew from the collosus, the colossus recostruct itself. It became more and more solid, more and more define. And one day, after ages or eons. The collosus would stand up again and walk once more in the desert. Claiming his kingship over all the land illuminated by the desert sun and be worship once more.