[open] out here in the dust; any

[Darrow]

i'm the king of nothing at all
you're my queen of nothing at all

You should have come in another season, Darrow, where you could rise up over the horizon like a fiery sun, or a riderless herald of the apocalypse descending into a world in the midst of decline. Instead you came in spring, where in a green world you attracted bees who mistook you for a flower and buzzed around your body, an aerial armada of bumbles.

In spite all the buzzing of curious bees Darrow cut a striking figure in the morning light. A distinct red color saturated every inch of his person, only his eyes were a chestnut brown ringed in gold. As he moved out of the trees and onto the shore his escort of insects dispersed, buffeted away by the wind that pushed inland off the water. He grazed on salt grasses as the sun rose higher in the sky. When at last he raised his head, the capricious wind brought him the scent of strangers from further inland. Nothing drew his attention particularly, and he instead traveled along the herdless area's northern shore without encountering anyone for a while. 

On the supposition that he would find something of interest, Darrow ascended some rocky cliffs where he could look northward toward the volcano of Tephra and southward over the expanse of the field. Three years a bachelor of questionable reputation had left him muscular and appropriately scarred. The trophies of battle and youthful folly were only darker variations in the carmine of his pelt, failing do diminish it's luster. 

Darrow