Past Marceline's borders is a land fit only for bones.

Nothing grows here. Water is a myth and the sun bakes everything below mercilessly. Why anyone would choose such a place for their home baffles him. His lips have cracked and his skin hugs his bones as day by day he becomes more dehydrated. His eyelids are gritty and there is sand, tiny and rough, caught between his teeth. It reminds him of his childhood. Never again, he'd sworn, and now look at him. Kicking his way through piles and piles of sand as he trudges further away from his new home, seeking.... what, exactly? There is nothing to delight the senses on Salem, only sear and destroy them. His nose feels raw, and his skin hurts. Every time the wind blows it peppers him with tiny stinging bits of sand, and this feels so much worse than he remembers.

That gives him pause. He snorts to clear his nose, swears as it cracks the fine flesh within and smears his sense of the world with copper. It is windy today. Unusual, in a place where the heat seems to render everything (except that false promise of water in the distance) motionless. He looks about himself, squinting not because of the bright afternoon sun above but because there is so much grit in the air it threatens to blind him.

Fuck.

He doesn't dare go back; how did it creep up on him, when all he can hear now is the roar of the wind? He looks around, tries to identify the darkest part of the storm, then tucks his head (as if that will help) and charges for what he hopes is the edge of this disaster.