Wing tugs at the dark tendrils of Chani's dark hair; she is sitting crossed-legged in the sand, the skirts of her Fremen robes tucked into her thighs as nimble fingers toy with an old, battered knife. She does not look up when you approach, but you can tell she is aware of your presence. She always is. Too perceptive for her own good. You sit beside her, and there is a moment of contemplative silence; the distant sound of metal disturbing the sand fills the air, as the rest of the Fremen are hard at work mining spice.

Finally, Chani speaks. "Sand." Her voice is flat as she taps her knife against the sand. The most emotion she seems to show these days is frustration. "Is there anything more beautiful in the universe?"

You know that she is simply filling the silence, and it does not require an answer. If you had to give one, it would be yes, if only to entertain her. A faint smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, and she gives a little scoff.

"No, there is not," she answers for you. She glances at you from the corner of her eye, noting your attention. You know she is teasing you. "Though you are welcome to disagree." A pause as she continues tapping the knife against the sand, the tap tap tap of the blade against the grains a peaceful lull to the distant harvesting. And then that playful edge fades a little; you can see the flicker of something more melancholic in her eyes.

"This land we call home is nothing but death," she murmurs, and there is such a sorrow in her tone that you feel a pang of sympathy. "The land provides us with life, yes, we exist because of it, but..." Chani falls silent for a moment, her gaze surveying the vast dunes that surround you.

She plucks up a handful of it, letting it run through her fingers. The grains shimmer a brilliant gold, and it coats her skin like glitter before falling to melt into the ground beneath you both. "Even our existence is an act of defiance against the sand." Her gaze flicks up to yours, then, the sweat on her brow dipping into the forming furrow.