Warning: Mentions Of Attempted Suicide, Starvation, Dyhdration
The Ashbringer walked through a barren wilderness. A cold wind blows as he walks, the dirt crunching under his feet. The harsh suns shine down on him, a reminder of his deeds. Even here, far, far away, he can feel the two suns' fury. It would be so easy to let those flames consume him, but he cannot. He has tried before.
He continues walking, starving and thirsting but not dying. He cannot die, for he made a promise. Eventually, he spots a tower on the horizon, decorated with banners he has never seen before: A crown floating above a flower blossoming into a million pointed knives. The Ashbringer sighs. As if in response, a sudden powerful gust of wind nearly shoves him into the ground. In an instant, it disappears. It was not his water-deprived mind, the banner flaps wildly and then falls back down. The Ashbringer blinks, then trudges forward. When he nears the door to the building, he feels the heat of flame against his scarred skin. He cuts the door open with burning hands. It opens to a round, open room. An outpost. In the center a pile of blue paper burns. The Ashbringer rushes in and wraps the flame around himself. The words on the paper are illegible, a foreign language. They were recently set aflame, the edges hardly burnt. He searches the round room for supplies, anything he can eat. And he does. In a strange, cold box he finds meat of some kind. He eats a slice of it, then finds a bed to sleep in. He sits by the fire, warming himself from the cold wasteland outside. Eventually, the fire goes out and he finds a bed to sleep in. As the two suns set, he sleeps.
