the RR sits on what was once the corners stone of the tallest tower for miles around, now little more than a large stack of pebbles on top of a half-buried sheet of lime stone. his thoughts drift to the trees around him, like the others of this world, a thousand clear trim points mark them from the butchering they had received every time a new twig grew from their braches. to his right an old willow, barely different from every other willow in the world has sprouted an odd off twig, in a fluid movement he closes his eyes, lifts a single stone from the ground, and snaps the twig at its base, a hiss of pain from the tree sends a cringe down his spine. Better than the abject terror of a city pruneing though.
the moon glimmers over head