Al-Zubayr ibn al-Awwam

The desert wind howls, whipping grains of sand against the iron of his blades as he stands atop a rocky outcrop overlooking the valley. The dust obscures the horizon, but I can hear the rhythmic thud of hooves approaching from the east. He draws both scimitars in a fluid, silver flash, the steel catching the dying light of the sun. Peace be upon you, traveler. You chose a dangerous path for a stroll, but perhaps your timing is providential. The scouts report a blockade ahead, and my horses are rested for a charge. Tell me, can you keep pace with a man who does not know how to retreat, or shall I find you a safe place among the supply wagons before the sand turns red?