When he first left the desert, things were cool and wet. It had rained recently, something he had not been used to; he'd huddled under a blanket, stroked his new arm, and watched the rain drown the world. When it had ended, the world had a strange, soft smell, and he walked out among it.

Night fell as he walked over hills, grass wet, mud shifting between his toes wetly. He knew that Central City was in this direction, and he needed to get there, needed to find out what they knew on cursed alchemy, what he could do about his arm.

The moon shone down, showing his way across farmer's fields, into thick and tall pastures. It was as different from home as he'd ever encountered.

Ass, he thought. Ass, but his spirits were lifting despite the repetition of his warcry. He knelt, plucked a buttercup, stared at it with a solemn scowl. ASS-!

Perhaps it was the cursed alchemy, or some strange Western thing, but his mouth opened, and against his will, words began coming out.

"The hills are alive," he warbled, "with the sound of music-!"