The dunes of white sand surrounded two travelers on all sides. Jarl, a rugged nomad led the way as Garrick, his young companion, tried to keep up. Ahead of them, a colossal figure slowly emerged from under the sand.

"Oh, no!" whispered Garrick in stunned horror. "The sandsloth! What are we gonna do?"

Blood drained from Jarl's stern face. "We're gonna die," he said grimly, "nobody has seen the sandsloth and survived."

"There must be something! You have escaped from the black pits of Caldorum, you have saved the queen from the dagger-toothed devilbeasts! Hell, you have even defeated the King of Night! There must be something you can do to save us, I'm too young to die!" whined Garrick.

The sandsloth loomed over them like a mountain, and raised its paw for an attack, excruciatingly slowly.

"Look at how slow they are!" exclaimed Garrick.

"That only means we're gonna die slowly. The myths don't lie, our doom is as certain as it is terrible."

"I say, we run!" Garrick turned, and sprinted in the opposite direction from the sloth.

"Fine, if a slight glimmer of hope will brighten your last minutes in this cruel world." growled Jarl, and ran after.

Hours later, the giant figure of the sloth was nothing but a dark spot on the horizon. Jarl and Garrick sat around a small campfire, Jarlb lankly staring into the distance, Garrick preparing their stew.

Garrick looked at his mentor puzzled "Do you think we didn't have to lose the generations of sand nomads to the sloths, if they knew you don't have to give up, and can just run away?"

"Who knows," murmured Jarl "myths are a powerful force. Maybe we did believe in them a little too hard."