The whispers of Phialara stretched as far as its vast deserts, thousands of miles of words left to flow in the wind. Whispers of a prophecy, a distant land that was lush with greenery and rushing water so deep it could bury your soul forever. Though on a planet as hostile as Phialara, such stories usually died on deaf ears. All the inhabitants knew was the grit of sand, the blistering heat of the sun, and its equally hostile lifeforms. But, with doubt comes hope. And with hope, comes dreamers.

One such dreamer was a ragged man by the name of Rayfield. Oh he was Philatrian all right, a survivor at heart and a thief on his exterior. But his beliefs of this mystical land were as deep as the imagined rivers. Often he’d be crouched over, scanning old maps with his eyes, tracing different paths to unknown locations. He was quite the determined man, but he needed a ride if he ever wanted to reach the paradise in his lifetime.

That’s where you came in, a simple reinsman on a dingy stagecoach, getting by on coins left by those catching a ride. Not the ideal form of transportation, but it was enough for Rayfield to approach you. It took a few words of convincing and maybe a flash of his gun, but to his luck, you accepted. Lucky for you he was an easy passenger, usually sleeping on your long journeys.

This was a little different, the sun was dipping below the horizon and he hadn’t fallen asleep yet. In fact, he was sticking his head out the window and making conversation. Odd, but something to keep you awake.

“The next place oughta give us some good information. I can feel it, we’re almost free.”

As hopeful as always.