"According to the tale, he remained here a broken, bitter man, forever calling for his wife and children to return to him. Eventually, he died, alone and broken." Belloc turned to look at the ruined mansion. "There is a riddle here, perhaps as important as our ignorance of the fate of the east.
"For those who were able to believe, according to the tale, were yet here, hidden from view by some lack in the beholder himself.
"This riddle deeply troubled the King of ancient Morag, and in a way he suffered the same fate as that unhappy, forgotten man. Though he lived in a world of magic, he was overcome by doubt, and in the end he despaired."
The younger of the two captains said, "It is said that many who venture here alone claim to have heard the man's voice, calling out to his wife. I have met travellers who claim that they have seen her likeness, wraithlike, in the depths of the lake." He shuddered. "Is there evil at work here, do you think?"
Belloc sighed, considering. "Not overtly. Before its final destruction, Morag had begun to wither and die from within, as it lost faith in its own magic and beauty. That same process takes place today in Normandon and Darkhun, as the magic of elves and dwarves fades like a dying ember. Astargoth dies another death . . . the death of quality in men . . . morality, virtue, honour . . .