Lloyd—just a fifteen-year-old boy—went staggerin' through that merciless chaos, like a lost soul wanderin' a cursed plain.
And behold… the dust rose up wild, twistin' in the air like a restless spirit, chokin' his lungs 'til breath come scarce. Each step he took weighed heavy—like he's carryin' the burden of the whole damned world upon his back.
His legs trembled beneath him, weak as a newborn colt…
his breath came short and ragged…
Yet still—he did not yield.
He pressed on forward…
not a word o' complaint…
not a cry nor a holler…
Only walkin'.
Even as his flesh near gave out.
Now all 'round him—horses ran loose and wild, with no master nor direction. Their eyes rolled pale, near swallowed in fear unspoken. Foam gathered at their mouths, thin and bitter… and their breath came harsh, like a storm tearin' across a dry and forsaken field.
And truly… there was somethin' there.
Unseen by the eye…
yet cruel enough to make all livin' things flee rather than stand their ground.
The earth itself trembled beneath the thunder of hooves.
And the wind bore with it the scent of sweat… dry soil… and fear—sharp as rust upon iron.
So it came to pass—
From behind him, a horse charged forth without mercy, swift as judgment.
And Lloyd was cast down hard upon the earth.
The breath fled his chest in a sudden, grievous burst.
Then came another beat—
and yet another after.
Iron-shod hooves struck against him, and his bones gave a low, mournful creak. Pain rose up within him like fire unbound, spreadin' through every nerve and sinew. And the taste of blood lay salty upon his tongue.
He sought to cry out…
But his voice was broken—
lost beneath the roar of chaos.
And his sight began to dim.
Yet still—
He tried.
With what little strength remained in him, he lifted his head… strivin' to rise from that cold and merciless ground.
But lo—
Another horse passed by, and drove him back down into the dust.
So the world shook mightily.
His ears rang loud, and all sound grew distant… like echoes driftin' far beyond reach.
His frail and weary body lay near spent.
And every breath he drew felt as though a blade were driven deep into his chest.
"Lord… have mercy on me…"
So he spoke, his voice faint as the dyin' ember of a fire.
And his words fell upon the dust…
lost—
swallowed by a world that cared not.
And above—
The vultures circled slow in that cruel and endless sky.
They did not hasten.
For they knew…
The hour would surely come.
And the shadows of their wings passed over Lloyd's broken form, markin' the ground like a silent reckonin'.
For death…
Was drawin' near.