Portia kneels down, tightening the laces of her boots. Sweat rolls down to the tip of her nose.
“Hestia Waystation,” she huffs pleadingly into the device on her wrist. “No signal” flashes repeatedly.
Overhead, an angry sun. Portia feels the weight of its heat sitting on her shoulders.
Tall grass waves in the warm breeze, shining tendrils of green folding lazily around her legs.
Out past these hills, Portia knows she’ll find what she’s looking for. She must find it no matter what.
Searching around in her pack, she recovers a canteen and inspects the diminishing supply of water.
“You run out, you’re done. Keep. Going,” Portia says and wills her aching legs to resume their march.
Noisily, the compass around her neck swings left, right, left, right with each dragging step she takes.
The grass bends away in her push forward, granting her temporary passage through its domain.
Had she been here on any other occasion, Portia would take her time to relish in the land around her.
Even so, she watches the green hills sloping past her and the clouds that briefly lend their shade.
She keeps an open ear when the wind howls past. The hills sing and the grass breaks into feverish dance.
In their song and dance Portia finds some relief, their kinetic energy a soothing balm for the pain.
She takes a deep breath, releases, and continues on her way.