Luneshale Pass my love, are you the devil?

Could we forward-date this to today, if you don't mind?

The sand warms her feet, emitting heat like a living thing. The sun is bright but the air is cold, and the wind digs its harsh edge into her scruff. There are no hills or trees around to break it.

Like a Rothko painting: there is no compromise, and any beauty present is also austere.

The pale woman that hesitates at the bank of the stream is no exception. At first she seems more mirage than corporeal.

Are you alright? Asun calls out, perhaps against better judgement. The wind snatches the words from her.