Shabby, torn fabric, stained by weeks of travel and bleached from the harsh sun. Long, thin sticks held the fabric up so it formed a triangle with the earth. The sticks were buried deep within the shifting orange sand to hold off the blistering wind.
Tent, Desert
hunter
the man sleeping inside.
I'm a very sleepy person. I live in the castle as a jester. My job keeps me entertaining the royalty for many hours a day. I love what I do even though I'm alway exhausted. I love the enjoyment of entertaining others.
Who goes there?! I am the royal hunter. What type of sorry tent is this? This is my tent that I sleep in! Get outta here, hunter! Don't be so sensitive. You must agree that it smells like wet dog in here. Perhaps, but why are you here? I am hunting for the king. Are there any deer in the area? Yes there are, plenty of them. But for future reference, entering a man's tent uninvited with all that gear is very dangerous. My sons are outside, I think it is you who is in danger.  Don't be rash old man. How dare you threaten me after coming to my domain and breaking into my tent! I can't be bothered by a man whose only possession is a stick.  That's not my only possession. Watch me strangle you with this! Well that escalated quickly! I'll field dress you like a moose.