Dawnlark Plains he's right, i am a murderer

The grating crunch of snow aletered Hiro to another presence on the field. A man with stories to tell through scars. He does not ask of them, nor thinks of it. He's heard enough battle stories from the company he drew to fill a dozen books.

Though their initial silence is a a stray away from a rountine they'd grown to live by, their averted gaze is script.

But it is only for a moment.

A stubborn flame Hiro had long to snuff out was hestitantly nurtured. He willed himself to rise his icy stare without outside command.

Do you know where cattle roam? the nomad called in guarded tone.