The air is as cold as it is clear; with no clouds to keep the daytime heat trapped in the atmosphere, it soon dissipates and leaves the desert bare.
You really can't beat this view of the stars, though.
Michael isn't prone to idle chatter, and neither is Wolfwood, so they walk in companionable silence, the tires of the Angelina II sounding softly in the dark, cool air. Vash would undoubtedly be relaying some obnoxious story, telling a string of terrible jokes, or singing off-key loudly enough to get them eaten by whatever horrible creatures live out in the desert to prowl the night-darkened sands.
It's a good thing Vash isn't here.
Finally, as they climb a dune, a few warm yellow lights come into view, twinkling like friendly lamps in the distance, and Wolfwood smiles, feeling the sweat and grim on his face crack with the expression.
"There it is. Not far now."
The crunch of tires on sand isn't loud, but it's enough to draw the attention of the people inside, and they've no sooner walked up to the porch than the door's opened and children pour out: about fifteen, between the ages of about five and twelve. They're followed by a kindly-looking woman dressed in solemn gray and black, who stands in the doorway and beams as a pigtailed little girl launches herself at Wolfwood, making him grunt as her arms circle his neck and drag him down.
"Father! We didn't expect you for another month," the woman says, and smiles at Michael, stepping forward. "And you brought a guest! Welcome, please, come in. It's a cold night."
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You really can't beat this view of the stars, though.
Michael isn't prone to idle chatter, and neither is Wolfwood, so they walk in companionable silence, the tires of the Angelina II sounding softly in the dark, cool air. Vash would undoubtedly be relaying some obnoxious story, telling a string of terrible jokes, or singing off-key loudly enough to get them eaten by whatever horrible creatures live out in the desert to prowl the night-darkened sands.
It's a good thing Vash isn't here.
Finally, as they climb a dune, a few warm yellow lights come into view, twinkling like friendly lamps in the distance, and Wolfwood smiles, feeling the sweat and grim on his face crack with the expression.
"There it is. Not far now."
The crunch of tires on sand isn't loud, but it's enough to draw the attention of the people inside, and they've no sooner walked up to the porch than the door's opened and children pour out: about fifteen, between the ages of about five and twelve. They're followed by a kindly-looking woman dressed in solemn gray and black, who stands in the doorway and beams as a pigtailed little girl launches herself at Wolfwood, making him grunt as her arms circle his neck and drag him down.
"Father! We didn't expect you for another month," the woman says, and smiles at Michael, stepping forward. "And you brought a guest! Welcome, please, come in. It's a cold night."