From the Typewriter: Dreams on the Plains of Terrasoo

The windswept plains of Terrasoo, full of dying, yellow grass, stretches off into the purple sky. The saddle chaffs, and my back is sore. The horizon is still far, and I must travel on. No one rides besides me now, and the law has forgotten my crimes. I will not amount to even a footnote in the histories of this world. Not far, I hear the babbling brook and the lovesick wind playing brokenhearted melodies upon those bending reeds. The plains are fair, the plains are fair, but the sky is dark with night and dark like blood.

I will camp here. I free my horse to drink and graze as I lay my body down in the cool earth. The stud wanders as it wills, while I cast my eyes to heaven, waiting for the first glimps of the stars. Who can say if I will wake in the morn? Will the new day find me here, or will I lie forever here by the creek, sleeping and cold?

There, one little dot of light above sparkles like a gem, and all the treasure of this land cannot contend with that twinkling star. Sighing, I wait for dreams to overwhelm, and as the night settles over the windswept plains of Terrasoo, a whisper in my ear comforts me with tales of mystery and romance.