The Stranger with Crimson Hair
The cart jolted forward with a loud creak of iron and wood, the wheels sinking deep into the soft earth road as morning stretched slowly awake. Light poured over the horizon in streams of molten gold, spreading warmth across the earth and bathing every surface in amber and pale orange hues. Dust was kicked up from the pounding hooves of the horses, sparkling like tiny sparks held in the early light, and made the road seem to shine as if it were alive.
Surrounding them, the world breathed soft peace. Birds painted slow, sweeping arcs in the sky, the leaves of their wings sketching a momentary shadow that danced across the infinite fields to either side. The soft, happy cries of farmers rode from far away, voices caught and muted by the breeze, warm and human, flitting about the travelers' ears like a soft memory of life off the road.
