Two men trudged down the trail, kicking up red dust into small clouds behind them. They’d been on the move for hours already and fatigue was beginning to bite at their feet and knees. T turned to look at F. He couldn’t have been much older then himself. Tired, drooping blue eyes betrayed a faint sadness and, like most men in the Wasteland, F’s skin was red and sun damaged. Cracked, dry lips poked through his large, wild beard. His hair was jet black, or it might have been, but grey strands had begun to weave their way through his tattered mane. In style it would’ve been difficult to tell the two men apart, but T had copper hair that glowed in the harsh midday sun. His eyes, more intense than F’s, were an icy and piercing blue. Eyes that looked through you, hard and unyielding.