The crunch of our footsteps upon the caked salt, kept us company as we stuck to the tracks of the many who have passed before us.
It was easier to keep our heads down and eyes focused on the patterns on the ground rather than the over bright whiteness stretching beyond, made worse by the glowing haze that hugs the horizon.
That’s probably why we did not see the muddy quagmire until we almost stumbled into it. I looked up to see a man buried up to his neck in the sticky mess.
Elijah and I freed him with some risk to ourselves. He barely nodded his thanks as he sped away.
Does bearing the mark always make one surly?