3. Sy'wyn Blackwood

Sy'wyn Blackwood


  • And he watched again as the air cracked and then reformed, the moisture being drawn together sharply into a human shape floating on mist, a barrier between him and the opening that led into the lower caves, that led into tunnels, that led to a specific tunnel, that led to a cave, that held a crystal. Not just another spawn poking its way up across the land, but the core. This thing was in the way….

    "You must stop," it uttered. "Turn back now, or perish."

    _Already while it was talking, he was chanting, and before the sentence finished, Stripe was out and hitting it, and the those chosen who were going to stop the collective at its source rushed as one, to bash this barrier down, himself in their numbers. He had always hated fighting.

    The opening led into dark tunnels, and he shifted his cloak back enough to let the soft glow from his bracers reflect off the cave walls, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light, but it was all he needed. The mark from Solais was glowing on his hand, the spirit there in front as they moved into the cave, and there were no more warnings, they found the passage instead sealed by a wall of crystal, solid, and unmarkable by the greatest of Grag's swings. The bards went into action….. which meant talking.... their soft whispers undersong by the druids whispering in their own language, and the occasional crack as Grag tried to take swings and find a weak spot here and there. He leaned back against the wall, pulling his hood low, letting the heat from the fight above slowly dissapate and waited, his eyes slightly closed, and head bowed.

    It started soft, almost imperceptible, Jerr's voice rising in a soft chant, working up into higher notes and gaining volume, soon Zyphlin's voice added to it, and then Sil's higher tones mixing in with the other two, even Mirkali adding in to the mix, the voices mixing higher and louder, and he looked over before reaching into his pouch and pulling a rag, tearing small pieces off and shoving them in his ears before his listening was forever ruined, but the voices continued building and he had to drop his bow and cover his ears, watching as the wall of crystal began to shake, and Solais turned, ghostly white, and shimmering with the volume of the voices raised into a crystal clear moment, and his mouth opened, but the words were just another part of the song as he shouted,_

    "NOW GRAG!!"

    _and the sound of Grag's axe slamming the wall was just another piece of the note, and the wall cracked, and then shook and then fell, and the volume dropped, and everyone readied themselves because they were known to be a risk now, and the momentum must be built, must be held, must flow like water rushing down the tunnels, it was the same with all wars, all battles, all fights…... they rushed.

    Figures formed and were cast aside, dissapating as they cut into the chosen, or exploding outwards in waves of cold, and moisture, and he was drenched from the water elementals that were not elementals, and was having trouble breathing, but still he chanted, and swung his scimitar as needed, and first one then another fell to the ground not moving. Zyphlin collapsed, having trouble screaming to Solais to raise her, her being Skyla, he had only really met her today, but his healing had been a moment to slow, a second to late, and the body of Skyla lay slumped against the wall, as Silmatheia's lay flat across the tunnel. Solais turning and chanting, bringing them back to their feet, gasping for air, and shivering, and they all looked to each other, Solais' words sinking in._

    "I will be unable to raise any more."

    _To many and yet, not enough. He raised his voice slightly, asking for a split in the group, and so many were willing to turn back and secure the tunnels, to help hold them if the need came, and only so many went forward to destroy the core. He voiced that the bards were needed. A slim plan, but it was the only one that we had, and so it had to be done.

    Zyphlin, Silmatheia, Sy'wyn, Solais Aran, Grag, the Fool, Rolan, Mirkali, Nicahh, Linah, Arandor, Lilly, and Lyte. And they began moving forward, joggin, wanting this to end, but not to end, to end, but only in a way that did not end with them all talking to Bones in the Fugue…. jogging down the tunnels, fighting elementals as they formed, though Grag and Solais seemed the only ones who could hit and hurt the creatures, Rolan and himself having long since switched to their scimitars in the hopes the heavier enchanted blades could cause some damage, and then turning a corner and rushing into the main chamber, and.....

    He remembered falling. Or was it stumbling? A single moment seemed drawn out into an infinite sparkle of electrical energy coursing over and then past him, and it hurt, and he stumbled, only wanting to kneel a moment, to take a moment to rest, the shouting and fighting, the chaotic jumble of people, and creatures, and magical energy that just flowed throughout the room, and no one would notice a single small elf laying down for a moment, just a moment.... had he not done enough...?_

    "SY'WYN NO!!"

    _Solais' clear voice cut through the jumble of light and flashes, and he felt the tug and pull of the mark on his hand, and the feel of a fresh breeze on his face, and the smell of the woodlands, and with an almost blinding flash of light to his eyes, the woodlands disappeared to be faced instead with anxious faces, smouldering remains of metal around him, a faint pain across his arms and chest, and the entrance to the final passage in front of him in the otherwise unmarked room.

    So it will not end here, he thought. It will end in the room beyond…_


  • _Three figures worked their way quickly across the coastal flats known as the beach near Peltarch. The sun just settling to the west, cast shadows across the field that polar bears were more likely to roam then the three motley set. One was a human, geared in armor, a large glaive carelessly up on one shoulder softly glowing from enchantments placed upon him. The second a large half-orc dressed out in dark plate mail that clanked slightly as he moved but seemed to not slow him at all, a large great axe up on his shoulder, looking around for signs of danger, the markings on his armor showing him to be a general in the Legion. Even the human had knots showing him to be an officer, likely from the glowing, to be high in the ranks of the Cerulean Knights. A slighter smaller form moved behind them, seemingly more concerned with keeping his cloak close for warmth, then any real danger around them. Off and on his cloak would flip back from a gust of wind, showing a knot of rank himself, though judging from the intricacy of the humans knot, much less the half-orcs markings, he was very low in ranks, though a sense of strength showed him to be close to the same experience as the others. His hood slid back enough to allow light in now and then, showing clearly elven features.

    He flicked his gaze to the two in front of him. Were these then, the heroes of Narfell? Were these the ones who would defend the land, who would stand against all that threatened it? The faintest hint of a smile touched his lips. A dwarven female the red robed one had said. Taken and to be recovered from the giants. As he stepped lightly across the frost covered grass, he could not help but think, it is so much easier with a purpose, with one goal. Go. Grab dwarf. Return. Simplicity. Was he a hero then as well? Someone destined to be a legend? The faint smile flickered into a soft chuckle for a moment. Most would think we were dangerous. Many would fear the approach of General Grag, decked in battle gear. Captain Anakore, Knight of the Cerulean Stars. Sy'wyn Blackwood…

    He should set himself a title, he mused. If I am to be a legend, then a title would suit me well. He shook the thought off, and paid more attention to the land around them, but there was no danger near, nothing attacked. Every now and then they would come across a large bear, but more often then not, two blades would suddenly strike up from the grass, or the sound of a bow string twanging from behind a tree, a sudden flash of red cloth, and the bear would fall down before lumbering more then a few steps. Anakore, Grag, and Sy'wyn may have been counted as heroes by many.... but in many ways, they were not the dangerous ones.

    He paused at the entrance of the cave, listening quietly before slipping into the darkness and allowing time for his eyes to adjust to the sudden dimness from the frost laden landscape outside. A little prayer and he sealed the wounds of the black clothed Nico, the wounds of the red slashed black clothed Nicahh, and the few marks of the red robed elf who moved so much like Keira did. He heard Anakore chant something and turned back to look, but he was gone from sight, and by the time he turned back again, Nicahh, Nico, and the red robe had slipped off silently into the shadows, leaving him and Grag looking at each other.

    They set off further into the cave moving quickly, working well together, speaking little, as all those who have adventured for a long time tend to do. There is a focus on a goal. You do not need to discuss how to handle that goal. So when the Ogre started chanting, and he saw the spell slam Nicahh into the wall, grasping her chest and having trouble breathing, there was no confusion. There was no shouting. He moved up and started soft prayers, keeping her heart beating, her chest breathing, as the others moved quickly to end the mage. End the mage, end the spell, a simple plan, no extra was needed, no explanations called for. They worked their way on through the cave, pausing to rest when needed, moving on when not. Nico was teaching the red robed one as they went, Grag was having a wonderful time, as he always did, the rest moved determindedly to their goal.

    And they found it. Torn ropes marked the spot where the Giants had dropped the dwarven woman. Not far away were boiled bones. They were to late, and the dwarf was obviously eaten. Practical as this group was, Sy'wyn slid the bones into a sack and gave the sack to Grag to carry. The goals had not changed. Go. Get Dwarf. Return. They worked their way back to the underground passage. Through the passage, and again an Ogre cast a spell, this time slamming into the red robed one. Sy'wyn was able to keep her alive and breathing till the mage was dead. And they slipped out of the cave and onto the field, and back to Peltarch. Were these then the heroes of Narfell, he mused? Unable to save one dwarf girl from the hands of the giants...? And was he really to even count himself in this group. The group broke up near the walls of the town, the red robe seeking meditation, Grag to see to the disposal of the bones, Nicahh and Anakore off in one direction, Nico... who knew with Nico.

    Sy'wyn went to the barracks. Grabbed an empty bunk, and laid down staring up at the ceiling above him. Was this then, the way it was to be? Heroes die. Heroes fail. Heroes fall. People hunt down heroes... if only to prove themselves better. Settling into the bunk crosslegged, even though it always brought odd stares from the other guards he closed his eyes, and focused on breathing, slowly through his nose, out through the mouth. Another smooth calming breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, and out throught the mouth. He opened both eyes suddenly and rolled off the bunk gathering his gear quickly.

    His helping legends out with his meager skills were going to get him hunted he knew. It would explain much of why so many creatures seemed to go after him in particular. He paused as he lifted the scimitar finding the balance of the blade in his hand all to familiar even sheathed. With a final deep sigh, he flipped his cloak across his shoulders and slipped back out into the night._


  • He sat in the corner of the tower, back against the wall, his cloak about him almost like a blanket, his cloak hood low, tossing his face into shadow. He had one arm extended out in front of him, holding a finger lightly on the top of the hilt of his scimitar, the point resting against the stones that made up the floor. The occasional glint of light reflecting darkly from his green eyes as they stared at the blade. Was this one his fault? His eyes flicked to the body of the bardic girl laying near the healer, someone had taken the time to clean the dirt, grime, and blood from her face, her eyes were closed and the peaceful look on her face belied the deep gashes in the remainder of her body left by the gnolls axes, was this one his fault? He was once told by someone who epitomized his god's ideals that the fires in the camp had made him soft. Perhaps they had, perhaps they had dulled the edge he needed to chase the gnolls back into their lands and out of the camp. Maybe that was why he had been unable to scare the kobolds out of the caves, the orcs from the fields, the yuan-ti from the woods. Perhaps he was spreading his own resources to thin. He brought his gaze back to the blade. He was not meant to be a warrior, a fighter, he was not meant to lead into battle. To bring himself and others into harms way. He closed his eyes finally and leaned his head back against the wall. This tower still bore the stains of the blood of those wounded in the Civil War, soaked into the stone of the floor and blackened with age. Images of the the burning buildings flicked through his mind with that of burning trees, bodies scattered amongst them, still shot memories of death, destruction, senseless. He cracked his eyes open as he heard movement near to him. The pale elf Keira settling down to the floor, her face expressionless, garbed still in the light colored clothing she used to blend in the snow covered pass. His slitted gaze picked out the bloodstains on her outfit, his mind oddly thinking how it must help to leave the occasional dark spot on the clothing to aid in camoflage. She leaned back as well, smoothly, gracefully, resting against the wall her eyes closed, before whispering,

    "Was it worth it?"

    His face hardened, his eyes flaring giving her a cold cold glare that she did not notice with her eyes closed. She was here to torment him, he could feel it in his bones. His gaze flicked back to the scimitar, entertaining the thought of drawing it across her throat as he likely should have done long ago. But the question was worth answering, and he pondered it, as he stared back at Demi's body. Was it worth it? One death, and they had barely pushed in half way through the outer camp. But how many gnolls had fallen? Twenty…. thirty... more? So many of their leaders, the axe wielders, it would draw some kind of answer, some kind of response, some measure of hurt to the dog men. Worth it...? For the greater good. For the greater good he had seen people die, tortured, accused, cast out, what was one death? Was this for the greater good? To even attempt an attack on the gnolls..? He watched Mingal finally return from Peltarch, walking across the floor of the tower, his staff out and watched closely as he began preparation for the return of Demi's soul to her body. The greater good would say yes. That a sacrifice of one bard's life was worth it, if even to distract the gnolls a mere moment from hitting others. He rolled to his feet shortly after the corpse began to breathe again, sliding the scimitar away into its sheath and lifting his pack up. He whispered off a response to Keira,

    "e: not really…"

    He hoped Demi was servant of the greater good, it would bring her peace at night when the dreams of the gnolls came bearing down on her.


  • Very nice, vivid imagery.


  • _He was crouched down in the snow right outside of the pass, waiting. Waiting. Not sure what motion he was seeking, what sign, what movement, but he knew it was not quite the time. Not yet. He had his scimitar held out in front of him, his shield strapped to his arm. He turned the blade until it was out in front of him, edge up to the sky, letting his eyes travel the length of the edge, seeking nicks or marks that he knew would not be there. The blade was a relic, a toy of another time, enchanted well and taken from a corpse that did not know it was dead. The hilt was still worn from the untold years the blade had seen, and he had never bothered to replace it. He was not fond of the weapon. He had never been fond of fighting, his dark green eyes flickering to the warbraid he had attached to his belt. He had finally gotten one, had worn it in many fights now, accepting what it was, that it was something worn only to fight, something worn when at war, that it was as much a symbol as protection. It sickened him. He had never liked to fight. His cloak fluttered lightly in the opposite direction of the wind, a blue mist raising slightly before settling back. The sun dipped below the edge of the treeline, and he knew this was it, it was time. He rose up chanting.

    No one with him this time, no one he needed, it was the blade, it was the shield, the helm on his head, the armor on his chest, his god was with him. He felt the blessings settle in, his muscles suddenly stronger, his feet more sure, his breath even, ready to run a mile if needed, his mind suddenly calmed, unaffected by the evil he could feel permeating this place he had once called home. Sparks floated in around him, cutting the chill from the icy breeze blowing cold across the snow covered pass. His green eyes glinted wild in the last rays of the sun as it disappeared and darkness settled. But the darkness was his friend as he slipped into what had once been the outer camp, home to many and welcome to all.

    He slid the helmet from his belt and onto his head, because this was war, this was devastation, this was destruction and slaughter of those he had come to know, and though he hated the blade, it slid easily through the first gnoll he found, and though the shield was someting of war, he eagerly slammed it into the next, knocking it from its feet and bringing the blade across its throat, the blood black in the night. And he slid through the trees, walking as softly as he could, he wanted this. He wanted the chance to cull the numbers, to make it easier when others would come, as he knew they would to cleanse the land. But he wanted revenge more.

    He was moving faster now, lightly jogging, eyes darting, past the gutted remains of Baba Katya's tree, doing his best to get each gnoll he killed alone, aiming for the throat first so it could not call out. He was short, and the blade was not long, but he quickly found that removing a gnolls legs dropped it the perfect height to remove its throat. He had been lucky so far, the numbers were great but they were scattered, and he was able to remove small bands of gnolls as he slipped into what had been the inner camp, past some of the stone ruins, before flattening himself against the cliff wall by the destroyed remnants of the tanners equipment. He slid around the corner, moving slowly, ever so slowly, knowing the gnolls were onto him now, that they could smell the blood of their fellows on his blade, his armor, his shield. But he sought something, one thing, and he would not leave until he had it, he worked up to where the communal tree was, and there. He saw it, its large hulking form moving amongst the gnolls, small wings tucked against its back, shouting in a guttural tongue at the other gnolls, he stepped forward as quietly as he could, and the night turned to day, blinding him for a moment, though he felt no pain, one of the gnoll shamans coming around the side of the building, already chanting again, and he brought the blade low and then up, slicing the gnoll from belly to throat as its chant turned into a death cry that caused the small elf to freeze.

    It was to late, the demon began a slow lumber his direction, and from out of the darkness howling and yipping came from the dogmen who were intent on the chase, he turned as if to run, but spun again, softly chanting in elvish, a purplish mist rising in front of him. The gnolls sprung towards him, and were tossed back as Stripe strode out of the mist tossing gnolls away from the elf, who took time enough to whisper,_ "e: keep them from me Stripe…" _before starting into another chant, all efforts at stealth were gone, the shaman was bearing down on them and still the elf chanted, his blade began a soft glow, then a brighter, his cloak flared and a blue mist enveloped him, and still chanting while Stripe ran to chase down the first gnolls who were trying to scramble away, lightning still flashing, and the blade in the elfs hands burst into flame, and he jumped over the gnoll corpses slamming it into the surprised demons chest, sparks flew out into the night, the demon staggered back, and he whipped the blade around slashing down across a leg, sidestepping right, forcing the demon to turn to face him.

    Stripe was working circles around the pair now keeping gnolls back from the now softly glowing elf wielding a scimitar of fire against the demon, who seemed to recover from the initial shock quickly. It raised its hands into the air and brought them down, a column of fire and light engulfing the elf, and the gnolls screaming in joy at the display of power, but he came out of the flames scimitar point first faking a jab and then dragging the blade across a lowered arm, sparks lighting the night again. The demon brought his injured arm up, and swatted out with his left hand connecting squarely and sending the elf staggering into the ground. The demon stepped forward, eyes blazing in triumph, raising both fists high to smash down on the elf, who gave out a light whistle. As his fists came down, the small elf curled below his shield taking the brunt of the hit, being almost crushed, memories of a frost giant foremost in his head, but he heard what he hoped for, screams of pain, and as he poked his head out from below his shield, he saw Stripe literally walking up the demons back, knocking the thing forward onto its knees, and the face flat from the weight, the cats claws tearing gaping holes into the flesh that seemed to close as they were cut. The elf rolled to his feet, slashed out in a smooth graceful motion at the gnolls who had rushed up, flipping his blade in his hand, and finished his turn slamming down with all his strength, all his body, and all his rage, forcing the scimitar through the demons head, and into the ground below, crouching and balling himself around the hilt, he felt more then saw Stripe finish his run off the demons back and leap into the air slamming into the gnolls again.

    This was going badly, the demon was down, but he had made to much noise, and he ripped the scimitar from its head, and gave it a swift kick before setting out into a flat run for the inner camp, he had done what he came to do, and though the gnolls were flooding in he continued to run, shoving past them when he had to, rolling across the ground when a swipe came close from an axe, dodging and twisting as he kept moving, he felt when Stripe departed, but he had served his purpose in delaying the gnolls, and the elf gave little thought beyond it to getting out of the camp, to surviving, and he moved through the trees, a few of the gnolls still yipping behind him, and he reached a hand into his pouch and dropped something, listening as the yelping increased when the gnolls stepped onto the caltrops. He saw the gap in the cliffs before him that marked the entrance out into the pass, and he cut straight towards it, the gnolls behind him falling farther back, as he flitted through the trees and across the leaves that had marked his home for such a short time… something shined in the moonlight suddenly in front of him silver light shimmering off the flat of an axe that slammed into his helm, knocking him flat onto his back, and he lay there stunned as one of the headsman stepped out from behind a tree grinning as all the gnolls do, tongue lolling out, as it lightly twirled the axe one handed and let it smack the palm of his opposing hand.

    And something snapped. Rage burned through the elf, and before the gnolls eyes, what started as an elf flat against the ground, sprung up and grew taller, broader, until he loomed over the gnoll as a troll, and he reached out with one hand and grasped the gnolls head as the other gnolls flooded in catching up, and the troll roared out, and tightened his grip on the headsman with an audible snap, and lifting body and all the troll turned, and tore into the gnolls who had caught up, never releasing the gnoll's head, he swung it as a flail, his left hand reaching out and grabbing gnolls and holding them still so his right could slam the leaders body into them, thoughts reduced to slamming gnoll bodies together, use the body, crush the body, fling the body, grab them hold them squash them, blood and rage, rage, what have these creatures done!

    And when the body broke from the head, he used the skull as a rock, slamming it down on anything that moved, his left hand had torn a leg from something and was using it as a club, and if something moved it was crushed, if something twitched it was beaten, those that fell he stepped on, those that turned to run he beat down, until nothing moved, until nothing twitched till there was nothing but a troll standing in a pile of bone, hair and blood, holding a leg in his left hand, a skull in his right, before turning and lumbering out into the snow, dropping the body parts on his way, then up towards Peltarch, still lumbering as a troll, the Eastlanders stepping away from him, blood covered and wandering, the elf let the troll form fade, and perched onto a hill overlooking the kobold lands, sliding the helm off finally, and laying it on the ground in front of him. And staring at it, his eyes still glinting green, a fey look upon his face._

    "e: one down….."


  • What is the passage of time to someone so long lived? One day, one second, ten years? The passage of time in the woodlands is nothing, and flows swifter then a stream to the river. The family wandered, campsite to campsite, chased from some, lingering at others, always a drive to find a new home, and bearing north as they went. Sy'wyn watched Alvar grow taller, stronger, his focus on swordwork consuming him, though a light of intelligence gleamed behind his eyes. Amendal fell deeper within himself, trying to control his new found power. Fadien, he still believed, suffered worse in all of this. Spending so much time alone, she became as wild as the animals they often found her playing with, when they could find her at all. So much time he spent trying to tame her hair, removing twigs and leaves and braiding it properly. And still they wandered. He had already the basics of common taught to him by Arith, and he learned more from eavesdropping from tree limbs on the few humans he found camped or settled in amongst the trees. After years, the four worked well together, an unbroken routine, until they came across the speck of a village Norwick.


  • He did not recognize the young elf who woke him, nor the tent he lay in. The voices around him were melodic, not harsh, so he knew he was surrounded by elves. He sat up and looked around, spotting his clothes, blood soaked still, but dried out tossed in a corner, a soft robe was lain across the end of the bed. It took the young elf repeating himself for the words to truly sink in.

    "e: Sy'wyn… the council has asked your attendance."

    The elf was insistent, and had an annoyed look, as if Sy'wyn should be moving quicker, so he sat up and gave a nod.

    "e: i will be but a moment, wait outside.."

    _With the elf gone he rolled from the bed, and slid the robe on. Looking about the tent, he saw nothing else that was obviously meant for him, so he ducked out under the flap and into the charred remains of his village. He flinched seeing some flames still, smoke still lingered low to the ground, like fog in the morning, though this would not burn off with the rise of the sun he knew. Most of the trees still stood, but were charred. He gave a slight nod to the young elf who set off immediately, swiftly, with barely a glance to see if he was followed. Sy'wyn decided he disliked the elf already and followed at his own pace.

    The council tent was set slightly up the hill, above the worst of the smoke, and he was motioned inside immediately. His eyes flicked across those gathered recognizing none till he settled on one in the corner, being carefully watched._

    "e: Amendale…? what has happened?"

    The council was talking, but he was not listening, his eyes focused on Amendale only. Waiting for a response… the others meant little to him, he thought they would be better served outside fighting the remaining smoke and flames. Amendale seemed to be mouthing something, and he voiced a light spell just to see his lips better. He was mouthing, i am sorry, over and over again. He turned finally to look at the council.

    "e: what is the meaning of this? why is my brother here and under watch?"

    The leader of the council stood with a sigh.

    "e: if you had been listening, Sy'wyn… you would know that your brother is responsible for this fire, the destruction of the village, and the death of a few of the clan. He is to be exiled."

    His face grew cold and hard, his voice barely above a whisper…

    "e: you would exile my brother…? remove him from our home...?"

    He turned back to his brother, eyes lingering for a moment… then back to the leader, his response quick.

    "e: there is no need… Amen, pack whatever is left, if you are not welcome here neither am i. Did Fadien and Alvar live? They will be coming as well then, make sure they pack what they need, i will wait at the top of the hill."

    Without another word, he left the tent and went up to the top of the hill, to the same spot he had collapsed at however many days ago, and settled down to the ground crosslegged, waiting patiently, looking down on the burnt remains of the village below him.

    "e: never meant to stay long as it was….."


  • Being fleet of foot does not always mean you can outrun and avert some tragedies. Being long lived does not mean you can outrun your memories. Sometimes, things happen, and you wish they didn't. And though over time all the good times fade into just a ball of joy in your head, all the bad times remain in stark detail. This is the way of things, it can not be changed.

    It took him almost a day to slide out from under the orc. A few more to where he could draw breath into his lungs and not feel pain where he knew he had a broken rib, if not two. Three days until moving quickly no longer caused him to black out, or become nauseous. He worked his way slowly back to his and Arith's camp, moving silently beneath the trees.

    The camp was gone. He found the rocks from the fire pit scattered, the spare wood gone, his own gear missing. He checked the cache of weapons, hoping to find anything of use, but it was empty, a note tucked away and written in elvish, "You did not think I would make it that easy, did you?" Arith's flowing script. He frowned at it, and limped off into the night.

    He knew he could stay out here in the woods. He had the skills to remain here for however long it may take, but it had been three quarters of a century since he had seen home, and he knew some of his injuries would benefit from a better healer then himself, so he set off in the direction he knew his village to be. A few days travel, drinking water from streams, and then when he was close, he pushed himself all night hoping to reach home as the sun first rose across the trees.

    As he crested the final hill the overlooked his home, he could smell the smoke heavy in the air. And as he rushed to the top of the hill the sun just now moving to overhead he could see the charred remains of his village, trees still smoldering in many places. And as he fell to his knees and his eyes scanned over the destruction wrought by the fire he saw a blackened hole where his house had stood. And as the shock rolled into him, the burning of his last safe place, he fell to the ground, grieving.