The wind gusts as my robe billows; I stared. I looked upon the vast golden and brown hills that spanned across the lands, made of wheat and brown wild high grass. Cloud cover graced the land as it dissipated as quickly as it came. The sun danced in a twilight borealis and glimmered through the crystal port hole. The sound of insects was also present, chirping with a mechanical essence. Wild horses pelted the lands with unscathed hooves. It was an unhindered paradise. The calico robe was loose and flowing as it rested upon my tunic and leather plate. My cracked boots groaned as I became restless. I paced back and forth on the adobe tiles painted from a red base of rose; the room was adorned in the artisan work of Sahib Rashaad, The Ancient Workman of the East. His trademark squared engraving marked the trim of the plain, off white sandstone walls. Ornate furniture was long since ransacked from this sturdy short fort, so all that occupied the room was my wool bedding case. My equipment clinked with every step. The sword of my Father, various pouches and my boots with buckled strap, a bronze looking glass, and a thin mesh of mail supported by my shoulders. I stopped by the windowsill again and placed my hands on the edge, I rubbed my family’s crest on my chest. An orb with a triangle inside, etched black with a hot poker many a year ago. My hair, now long, swept in my eyes.
“I need a cut.”