Judas Maxwell Anderson strode through the mountainside, ignoring the charming mountain air or lack thereof.
He peered about, searching for something, though he knew not what.
These mountains held secrets for him, times of trial and madness, a girl's face, a dragon, and more.
He bent over, removing his black glove to reveal the metal prosthetic that was his right hand.
It was shaped like a normal hand, though made of hard, cold black metal, it was quite ingeniusly jointed and almost as flexible and quick as a hand of flesh, and in the center of his palm was a red sensor whose use only he knew.
Slowly moving to a spot in the ground, he traced a large cross into the ground, remembering his lost life.
The funeral was his, and he was pleased.
He peered about, searching for something, though he knew not what.
These mountains held secrets for him, times of trial and madness, a girl's face, a dragon, and more.
He bent over, removing his black glove to reveal the metal prosthetic that was his right hand.
It was shaped like a normal hand, though made of hard, cold black metal, it was quite ingeniusly jointed and almost as flexible and quick as a hand of flesh, and in the center of his palm was a red sensor whose use only he knew.
Slowly moving to a spot in the ground, he traced a large cross into the ground, remembering his lost life.
The funeral was his, and he was pleased.