'Even though I hadn't hoped for much success given the strict rules of the southern societies regarding their beliefs, I headed out to the desert nonetheless. I honestly hoped I might make a difference, given my profession—I was unfortunately wronged; the people of the desert are stressed, some even frightened by the force of our state. Establishing a connection with its people was hard, barely even possible—the young commander didn't help me much in that regard either...'
Brushing through his dark red hair with his finger, he found himself wandering atop a flat, rocky plain, surrounded by steep cliffs and lowland; the bag weighed heavy on his neck muscles. He bought too many goods for himself, as usual, overpreparing for the rest of his journey.
His tired eyes quickly wandered down a low-lying plain that stretched out to his right; orange lights escaped from it, lighting up the dark region, catching the man's attention. Wearing his mantle up here was a good idea; the winds that hit his face were sharp and cold, and dark air filled the rift from which the lights lit up. The closer he came to the fire, the harder it was for him to simply ignore it being present. Freeing him momentarily from the dread he felt by thinking about his failed journey to the south, replacing the bad aftertaste with curiosity, as he stepped closer to the rift.
Enflamed tree crowns met his glance; there was no reason for this fire to be present at the moment; the sun was long gone, wood as dry as this would never last long enough to burn a complete day; the fire was for sure man-made. The report he had gotten from a water kingdom guard back at their outpost in the Shama rift made him remind himself that dunewanderers from the west bank of the desert had fled to here, exploiting the tiny villages and camps of the hunters that walk through the mountains.
Grasping the handle of his sword, he scanned the valley, his lenses quick to search through the fire, looking for anyone remaining in the rift. It didn't take long before the man finally found someone, a bleeding boy on the ground, an armed person clothed in rugged black garments, the both of them in front of a closed exit—the only one that was noted to exist here, a main gateway to reaching the border and Puertagua that lay right on it. Hesitating for a while, his mind racing if he should just walk away from the sight, the man slid down the steep rock, the floor curling up until he had arrived at the flat trench floor.
He had heard the shrill tone the masked person had; his description perfectly matched those who roam the West Bank, now engulfed nearly completely by the storm, possibly forcing him to migrate to the mountains. He sighed at his own thoughts—merely holding himself off from calling their urge to pillage others their tradition, a lie—since nearly every society roaming this world follows the exact same practice. Overhearing a muttered "Who are you...?" from the masked man who quickly turned to him, he watched his arm slice the person's throat before his mind could react to his own doings.
His face flinching at the sight of blood running down his sword, he paused to eventually turn to the child in front of him, his eyes somewhat set on a faint flicker escaping the numb, stretched-out hand that rested on the ground, its bandaged fingers pointing to the steep formation of rocks that had walled off the only path to Puertagua.
The boy had lost a lot of blood, crimson tainting the bandages wrapped around his upper torso. The cuts weren't deep enough for the child to suffer any fatal wound. His dark red hair fell into his face once he crouched down to him, fixing his middle part again with his hand, as he held two of his other hand's fingers against the youth's throat, a weak pulse resounding from his body—most likely unconscious.
The wall was most definitely man-made, erected by the boy right on the floor beneath him. The man sighed, his interest piqued by the youngling, somewhat covering the wound by ripping his coat apart and strapping it tightly onto his body with the little bit of rope he had left. He wasn't invested nor prepared enough to handle a wounded child like him—luck would ultimately decide the boy's fate.
Throwing the numb child body onto his shoulder, holding his palm out against the stone wall, the man focused—his skin tightly pressed against the grainy texture of the stone. With the help of his mana, he pulverized the stone front again, making the stone that emerged from the ground pulverize nearly at a blink of an eye—without having to use any sun shard or anything similar to it.