A beaten dirt track is one of the few ways of navigating to the trade city from his broken home; thousands of horse and boot prints worn into the landscape, grass spent to the edge of a rocky hillside where cattle once grazed. On the outskirts of this arid beaten dirt track a young world weary peasant boy spends his days perched on these rocks with his feet in the air watching the days drift by. The trade city was one weeks walk away - this walk although, would take much longer than that.
Often he sits and listens to the stories of crazed old men, mighty knights and travelling merchants who loudly boast their tall tales to old friends, while scoffing, into wine goblets hastily heading towards the small towns and villages that lay on this path ready to trade - tall tales of floating cities and tower peaks that touch the sky. Upon hearing these stories, he would wonder in his own head, walking tightropes in his mind's eye and create wondrous scenarios of fantastical beasts. Ravenous creatures with thick fangs thirsty for blood or small dwarves mining for precious ores. Tall tales were all these men seemed to be able to tell, no news ever spread of the knight who killed three sand serpents with a bag of flame salts and his shield. This boy on the brink of manhood had no family or friends, they were all taken from him when he was young. His mother lay buried at the foot of an oak tree he used to climb in being eaten by worms.