Roland

Anselon Continent, Southern Plains.

"Pant, pant..."

Roland staggered onward, his chest like a burning desert. Every breath was a scorching blade of wind, scraping away the last trace of vitality within him.

His legs had gone numb, like pieces of wood, dragging themselves forward in turn and barely keeping him from collapsing.

"Am I going to die?"

He forced his eyes open wide. Sweat blurred his vision, and through the haze, he could only make out a patch of green to his front right.

Instinctively, he adjusted his direction and rushed toward the woods, turning his head to look back at the same time.

The wilderness behind him was silent. The sparse vegetation blocked his view, leaving him unable to see very far.

He twitched his nose and faintly caught a familiar stench of rot drifting on the wind.

"Heh heh, I knew it..."

A hint of mockery touched his lips. His foot caught the edge of a tattered black mage's robe, and he pitched forward, rolling several times before tumbling into a deep ditch.

His hands flailed wildly, leaving several uneven finger marks on the cold, slick mud wall. Yet he lacked the strength to stop himself from sliding down, eventually landing flat on his back at the bottom.

"Splat—"

Half his body sank into the mud. It was cold and slimy, an unpleasant sensation, yet it brought a long-lost coolness that refreshed his mind somewhat.

He tried to prop himself up, but his palms sank deep into the mud and could not be pulled free. He could only lie helplessly at the bottom of the pit, letting murky water pour into his ears and shut out the sounds of the outside world, as though the world itself were drifting away from him.

"Heh heh, heh heh..."

He let