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((Triple Monday -- Page 1 of 3))
Parson made his way down to the ground, taking the stairs this time instead of sacrificing more flesh needlessly. It was slower, but it didn’t seem like the stranger was going anywhere. He ordered the heavy gates open, slipped through the crack, then ordered them closed again behind him.

Overra latched onto his shoulder as he made his way over.

The winds were picking up, stirring enormous clouds of dust into the air and obscuring the stranger’s silhouette at times as Parson drew nearer.

So bothersome. Such was the weather of Montero, however. It was called the Dusty Jorum for a reason.

“Sir!” yelled Parson over the howling winds. “Sir, are you okay?!”

Only the scratching sound of swirling dirt answered him.

He pressed closer and tried again. “Sir! Do you need help?! Are you unwell?!”

After a flash of passing dust, the man in question was suddenly right there in front of him, close enough to touch.

Parson went rigid as he eyed the man carefully.

Whoever he was, he had the attire of a commoner. Only a ragged tunic and cotton trousers, both caked with dirt. He didn’t even have a traveling cloak, though he must have been walking for days to have ended up here, unless he’d gotten separated from a caravan or something.

“Where are you?” the man said in a haggard, desperate tone. “Where are you?”

Parson craned his neck forward a little, trying to examine the stranger’s face. “I’m here,” he said.

“Where are you? Where are you?” He kept not looking at Parson and instead looking past him--or through him, perhaps.

“Sir, I’m right here,” Parson tried. “Can you not--?”

“No. That is wrong. You are wrong. This is wrong. Where is he? Yes, where is he? Where are you? No, where is he? Can you not see me? How far did you go? Did he go?” The man reached a hand out, and Parson recoiled from it.

“Sir, what is your name? Can you tell me?”

The man stopped and looked at his own hand as the wind calmed for a brief moment. Then he looked up at Parson, eyes renewed with light, as if seeing him for the first time. “Yes, it’s you.”

Parson squinted. “Me? You’re looking for me?”

“No. Yes. But no. You are not he. Where is he? Where did he go?”

Parson was growing impatient, and the wind and dust were, too, it seemed. They grew in fury again, making it difficult to hear the confused man over the noise.

Having had just about enough of this windstorm, Parson resorted to pan-forma with Overra.

In an instant, the area burst clear of all dust, and the roaring winds died upon an explosion of transfigured oxygen. He’d expelled it in all directions, save in front, where the poor and confused stranger was standing.

“Sir,” he tried again, as Overra melted out of his body again, “can you tell me your name?”

The man was staring at him in rapt attention, now. “...My name is Ettol, cedo.”