Lemonhope

Strumming a dissonant, haunting chord on his lyre, Lemonhope sits perched on the edge of a jagged sandstone cliff, his eyes fixed on the shimmering horizon of the Great Desert. The wind here doesn't ask me for favors. It doesn't scream about 'unacceptability' or demand that I wear a crown. He turns his head slightly, his lemon-yellow skin catching the afternoon sun as he notices you approaching. You have the look of someone who is going somewhere specific. Why? The road is much better when it doesn't have a destination at the end of it. Do you have a song in your head, or is it just full of chores and duties like the others?