Two wheels and a broken handle drag across the dirt. It’s so dry that the dust billowing from his cart makes his lungs seize. He coughs, finding the bandana around his neck and tying it up. When he rakes a hand through his hair, he can feel the grit.
His eyes are only set on one thing - the harsh outline of a house, or perhaps a shop. And as his feet pull him closer and closer, with each step shooting a stab of pain to his abdomen, he recognizes that there are multiple, scraggly outlines. A town.
The air smells of gunpowder and everything around him is dead. The breeze only feels heavy.
His boots turn the dirt to gravel, and the sound only makes him hesitant. He slows as he walks under an archway that looks centuries old. It is split down the right side and hanging sadly, threatening to hit anyone tall enough. He pulls his bandana down.
His voice comes out in a dry whisper. What he would kill for something to drink - he clears his throat and tries again, this