Her vital signs sunk into the gurgling mud gradually, a piece of her crumbling day by day. Every death was like a shaky wind billowing past a meek candle flame, each breath growing bolder as time passed. Finally, the dim light quivered to low one night, and she was forever silenced by the bastard beast of change. Change was a distasteful word to her, even after death. Her skin grew black and cold, eaten away by disease and disparity. Her core temperature could only be described as freezing, and her eye sockets eroded away into nothingness.

A year passes.

She is now but a skeleton of her former self, with dingy gray bones and the smell of disenchanted dreams permeating through rotten failures. A thick fog blankets her head each night, and a smoldering sun stings her face each morning. But she feels nothing anymore. She is merciless and helpless at the same time. Next Horizon died peacefully in her sleep of natural causes, but her carcass remains unburied. This generation is unlike any that have traveled this land before. They have adapted their ways to eat little, drink less, and numb themselves from the extremes of this selfish climate. Her trees shelter those who are very much alive and aware of the mysteries of this land. Both human and horse keep their eyes open during sleep. They now know that Next Horizon is haunted...and carefully watched by the past that dug her grave.