The sun was bright and beautiful, the land once a lush green as far as the eye could see was a dying brown.

The child's stomach growled, tonight's meals were not enough.

"Clay..." came his mothers warning voice, the tiny underfed five years old sighed and shuffled back over to the meals dirty dishes and started the task of scrubbing them clean.

"There hasn't been any rain for months," Father said, the man was a greying sheep hybrid and the seventh generation of framers.

"I worry, the next kingdom has the same issue," his mother said, she was a small women with a very small pair of wings showing she had avian blood but not enough to count as a full hybrid. Little Clay looked perfectly human, not taking any sheep nor avian hybrid qualities, he'd unlikely till he hit puberty.

Clay didn't understand much of what his parents spoke of, most of his life the world outside was of a greying dying land with cracked dirt and dead trees.

"They say that the old god died, a new rite must take place..." his mother whispered.

"Curses, we must clean the house from top to bottom before the red priests come," Father said.

"CLAY!" his mothers agitated voice yelled.

"Yes mother?" he asked, not even pausing in his task.

"After your done, take a coin and go to the town bathhouse. I will give you special products to clean with," she told him, he blinked as usually he was shoved into an old washtub to clean.

"Yes mother," Clay responded.