Graeme feels the sand get into his boots. He smiles wryly - no matter how tightly he ties his laces it [i]always[/i] finds its way in there. He almost likes the feeling. 

A short distance away, a spectacle unfolds before Graeme. A small group of people are surrounded by what seems to be a dying sandstorm, and a large, crimson figure pins a man down mercilessly. Without much time to process the situation, a small spark of anger was ignited in Graeme - he'd seen a scene like this before. He would not run this time. 

Graeme exhaled and took a wide legged stance. Sand was kicked up with the suddenness of his movements. He felt a familiar tug in his chest - the draw of magic. He pulled back his cloak and hood, revealing lightweight, ornate armour that glinted silver in the sun. White mist swirled from his bracers. The ground rumbled as he was about to unleash his power.