A hopeless scout

A short man with a tired face wanders out onto the sands of the dagger hills. In the roll of scouting, his lack of survival know-how has landed him in trouble once again. How long did he wander and which way was home? He squints in the night, airborne sand biting at his exposed face. The only thing he can think of to pass for food in the desiccated sands are the odd blackened hearts of the undead that litter the hills.

He hungrily holds one up, eyeing it, smells it, pokes it, and ponders.