Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-25808351-20180615005427/@comment-30014014-20180919012628

IN the highlight of the winds raging forth and back, the fall of the stick he used to carry is made soundless. Prad's stomach attempts to funnel itself back, only to fail miserably, a botched attempt at laugh. Cough replaces it.

"W-well, you know me...I'm al-l-lways around. N-n-neve-er to far..." his tone is playful. As playful as an injured can be. HIs vision of the one carrying his broken arm is pure horrors, yet his body is all too feeble to muster any response, overtaken by the need to cross the rift.