She sat very still from a long time, her bleak gaze turned inward. If she noticed that Belloc and his soldiers continued their journey and left her alone with Brogan, she gave no sign.

By late afternoon, as Belloc led the way north, the lowering skies became dark and grey, and by dusk a heavy mist began to fall, and it grew cold and windy. As night fell, they found the remains of the ancient north road with some difficulty, but were soon following it in its winding course that began in some long forgotten place in the east, and worked its way north among the hills.

Come midnight they risked fires to dry out their clothing, made camp off the road amongst some ancient, crumbling ruins, and slept.

For long days Belloc and his soldiers crossed this sad, empty place that was once the fair elven Kingdom of Morag. The seasons themselves seemed to forget spring and summer, as though such happiness were unbearable. Mists and rain were Morag's perpetual legacy, like tears shed for happier times that were lost forever. No children had laughed or sung in the ancient dwellings of these people for many times many an age. No bird sang.

After their parting with Belloc, and as they began following Stony Brook into the Black Forest, as Dorain rode with Brogan back towards the Fortress on the River Grey, she thought often of Rhia, whose people were descendants of Morag. They had endured for centuries without hope, living in the shadow of the One who had dispossessed them, and with the certain knowledge that Morlock the Wizard, the evil betrayer from another age, yet lived.




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