Dawnlark Plains buried alive by the lies in their soul

Muscles flex underneath as the boy soldiers on, trailing forth with the crunch of snow underfoot. A barren wasteland of winter-white, with that goal standing strong and steady; whatever turmoil that once shook these lands now lays quiet; dormant. Had the earth still trembled underneath him, certainly the Wayfarer would’ve sought fighting them, too.

It is, however, a speck of beige that breaks the unyielding gaze. Shifting from the mountain peaks towards the willowy boy with a heart-shaped face and angular features. He lays in the Wayfarer’s path; an obstacle to conquer, as the others before him had been. It intrigues him, interest piqued in a way that that obsessions shift from the climb to the thin figure.

How his burly form could remain invisible to another so close is amusing to say the least, for once the fellow boy realizes his presence he freezes; features round and then thin, fear scent seeping into the Wayfarer’s nose.

Yet instead of turning tail, a shuddered sigh escapes lips and fate thus accepted. He stands before the Wayfarer; brave, or stupid, he isn’t sure which better describes it.

You always give up so easily? The Wayfarer asks, arching an eyebrow.