• Rhyeythis, the Kingdom Of Waste. The disregarded kingdom of drought and sorrow. The children in the povertized kingdom were often orphans, as their parental units almost never live past childbirth or thirty. Whichever comes first. Nobody had the motivation to care for the kingdom, or dare try to send them resources in fear of a caravan attack.
    Children in the kingdom were horrifying, with taut flesh that showed their demand of hunger, every injured bone that refused to be set. Nobody cared for the kids, people were even tired of having them around. The poverty was so dense that when a child went missing, nobody ever questioned it. Fights for food were common, as there was very little to begin with. Clean water was in far greater demand, needed for waste and to clean the disgusting remnants from the week, or even month behind them.
    The need for school in a Kingdom that can’t even feed its own children was petty, The children could never make the distance themselves without falling over from heat exhaustion, or even death. Not every kid had it rough, some were strong enough to fend away the battering hands when they got their own mitts on something at least moderately edible, and your parents were alive, and even had a meager amount of money; you were one of the luckiest people in the kingdom besides being the actual ruler.
    Lark slid under the plume of children, the gaps in between their legs wide enough for a human to slip through, or even someone of his stature to run completely under. He hugged a small cloth to his ribs as he ran, bare feet and sand not providing a hearty surface. He scampered through the dunes of whipped sand, his feet sinking farther with every advance until he eventually was floored. His beaten hands grabbed at the edges of the wrap he could find, his dark eyes shooting up every few moments to try to espy anyone; but luckily his pale skin and inferior amount of clothing protected him. He pulled the bread from the fabric, chuckling lightly to himself at the rave of children fighting over something he had stolen from out under their noses. He chomped on the bread, a dinky roll that was stale. He couldn’t complain, it was really good bread, and an amount to keep him filled until next Sunrise.
    “He’s chewing on something!” one of the older fighters had turned around to look for the missing child, and had spotted him, while Lark’s maw was filled with the pieces of bread that he had torn off; specifically the not moldy ones.
    “He’s got the food?!”
    Lark looked up, eyes widening with surprise. “s**t.” The tween lifted himself to his feet, the bread cramped in his jaws. He flicked his hand in a dusting motion down his body, springing to turn around, his feet tearing from the unpleasantly hot sand to escape the wrath of many, hungry children.