The grey-blue sky, the yellowing grassland, and the granular sandy soil; two horses pulling the cart, taking steps on the earth, viewed from above it looks like a tiny dot moving slowly.
The wheels sway and fluctuate with the clumping roots and soil beneath, and on the cart, Guy leans against a stack of hay behind him, holding a whistle. The sharp and urgent sound of the wooden whistle changes from time to time, bringing forth a somewhat bleak tune.
Hexia sits in the back of the cart now, also leaning against the haystack with Ores, her gaze distant, contemplating many things.
She wonders about the changes in the Federation since she and Ores left, and the newborn races she's encountered lately have brought her substantial reflection.
