'She could almost "hear" the groans and laments of the land.'
'The "wind" her father had spoken of was no longer a distant, rumbling thunder. It had become a raging hurricane sweeping across the land, mercilessly snatching up countless "leaves"—people like Deacon Byron, the farmers of Baron Valen's Domain, the residents of Grey Stone Town, and the refugees she had just seen—only to toss them about and tear them to pieces.'
'And all she was doing was dripping water onto a parched, cracked field.'
'It might help a few seedlings hold on a moment longer, but it was powerless to stop the entire field from turning to desolate waste under the scorching sun and violent winds.'
The carriage jolted along the increasingly rugged and dilapidated road. Outside the window, the scenery was desolate. Occasionally, she could see the ruins of burned-down farmhouses or skeletons lying by the roadside, gnawed by beasts until they were unrecognizable.
