Life on the road was simple and repetitive. Familiar.
Whether the town has a name or not, Thæon avoids it unless he has no other choice when he is in need for supplies and food. It’s not often he can’t hunt long-ears or shoot down birds from the trees, but the further south he travels, into the territory of the Gledaibelann Veld, where the world rolled out into a pale meadow of sandy-blond grass, Thæon found his hunts to be progressively less fruitful, forcing him to venture closer to villages that he would wish to visit.
Before too long, there were few trees or bushes; only those that grew sprouting up amidst rock outcrops and decorated with coloured sashes, acting like road markers where there was no road through the veld; only that which travellers made themselves, following the trail of sashes between tree and rock spire alike until they were to come to a village.
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