Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-25808351-20180615005427/@comment-30014014-20180918155005

A stick planted on the ground every few seconds. Prad's feet follow, one all too weak to properly lift itself, the lacerated one. Instead, it traces on the earth.

With pain, he continues to follow the strains of orchid gliding along, coiling and receding as a serpent. With misery does he carry himself. Then, a stumble. Perhaps a branch, perhaps a rock. Whichever it is, its resilence, as feeble as it is, is much for Prad, who trips along, face against the ground, rekindling his pain synapses.

HIs path, rendered undone by the overwhelming mount of agony. Seconds pass before he can muster the force to force himself up and resume. A torn shroud amidst the windsm unbeknownst to anyone...