His footsteps echo briefly through the flows, edging little seconds of terraces into the shifting breath of grey that covers everything along the narrow ridges in the area.
“...the man will tell me when he’s ready,” he murmurs to himself, carefully placing another step against the dune-y fine grit of the hills.
“Tell you what, traitor?” comes a stolid voice from the heights trumpeting dimly to his south-west now.
He is Gutarriezknindracastorblyledgespillioth. Kenny to his friends. What will happen will not happen because of him.
And so he smiles, and takes another step, breaking into a run against the grey, toward the bastion, the edge of reason ringed in stone and harboring the man he’s come to find.
A click rounds on him from the high place, encroaching.
His feet carry him closer to the tower shrine where she looms, a curtain of hewn rock, a barrier against the soft and deathly grey. Blood spits from his chest like a gull diving for fish off some cliff, becoming a line across the stones of the Shrine as he falls, pitching forward on stumbling, climbing toes.
On and on he pitches- forward, deep, straining blindly into the dark.
He’s been murdered.