Who's the boss?

Ghosting around the high, shifting dunes, the two walked in a blazing land of fire. Silent and reflective, wrapped in their own thoughts, their tracks disappeared from the sand, erased by the low wind gusting that shaped the unmerciful desert. Distance deceived, and water was scarce; this land didn't forgive the foolish, or brave.

Sand drifted beneath their legs as they plodded along. The sun beat a roasting tattoo on their exposed skin. He regarded his traveling companion, who trudged ahead babbling in a strange tongue.

The man's skin was leather, a deep, dark wrinkled hide. The lines of years etched deep on his face told of countless days out here in the sand ovens. He waved a stick erratically over his head, loosing a piercing whistle when the mood took him. Two brown eyes, like rusted steel, glanced back towards him when he blew the shrill sound through gaped teeth.

It'd been like this since his youth, him and his mad friend wandering the dunes. He felt a tinge of sorrow for the poor creature. Scrawny and weak of limb. The thing's endless journey across the hot sands must've been torturous. Scorched by day, frozen by night, under the curtain of stars. It was a wonder the wretched things bones didn't snap with the constant change.

Their shadows lengthened in the setting sun. His stretching across his companion, offering some respite from the furnace. The whistling stopped, the man's pace slowed. (Oh he's tired, time to rest up for the night.)

Settling down on his side, he watched his unfortunate associate light a tiny fire to brew his tea. Feeling drowsy, he slipped into a dreamless sleep. As the stars wheeled above.

A sharp crack to his backside shocked him from his rest, the little thing babbled and whistled again. He'd quite a temper in the morning, for a small creature.

" Get up you ungainly beast, get up."

(Here we go again. Another day of incessant gibberish and painful cracks of the whip. Who'd be a camel?)