In the Buried City, silent and lifeless as it had been since history forgot its name, a lone figure haunted its sand choked streets for the first time in many years. The figure was a warlock. Cloaked in a dusty red trench coat and a rounded metal helmet that concealed his face, his expression of an unspeakable lack of fulfilment. The Cabal had made his journey to the lost Buried City a kind of trial that could have been the thirteenth labour of Hercules that even a demigod could not complete. His squad mates, his friends, were lost to those relentless, fury-driven meat grinders. He was left with three bullets for his revolver - not enough. And after all of this not even the bones of the forgotten were there to greet him. The warlock raised one hand to the sky, fingers spread. Immediately what looked like a red rust materialised on his hand, then down his arm, then on his shoulder, upper body and so on until his entire form was shaded in red. He chuckled to himself; he wasn't quite dead yet and still the red sands of the buried city was trying to bury him. His chuckle soon turned to coughing - even dying breath needs some water it seemed. Suddenly, he dropped to his knees. His legs had given way and now his raised hand was limp by his side. He allowed himself to fall forth but made a sharp turn of his body and fell on his back. The Buried city began to swallow him whole - slowly. He looked one last time at the sun, it once warmed him but now it only irradiated a chilling cold. Closing his eyes one last time he let out a great exhalation. And the Buried City welcomed its new inhabitant with a great embrace.