(FFT) Fruits of Labour

The Galkrete fruit was said to be the sweetest most delicious fruit in all the land of the After Zone, of all the fruits left untainted by the waters. The grand fruit was something of legend, a treat of kings, and the old man was getting some if it killed him. From the looks of his frail physique, it likely would. The wizened figure leaned heavily upon his staff of oaken wood, battered and scraped. Behind him lay Kiilk, seperated by the grand expanse of canyons. Before him lay smaller canyons and somewhere within, or so he claimed, this legendary god-fruit.

The reins to two Dreadmares hung in his frail shaking fingers, skin so taut and pale despite the glaring sun one would believe him to be a skeleton risen from the dead. But the dirty broken nails betrayed the illusion. The figure stood hunched beneath the hooded grey cloak, equally dirty and decripit as the rest of his image and dwarfing his tiny frame. A gaunt lower half of a face jutted out from the shadows the hood cast. Robes of the same color and stature as his cloak hung off his thin frame, and bare feet buried themselves in the sand. A messanger bag of torn leather hung from his shoulder.

The old man waited restlessly. Where was the lad who had agreed to follow him on this insane adventure? Late surely, even though there was still an hour till noon and the old man had never specified a time. Still, he was restless in his waiting. He wanted that fruit. Desperately.