Tarron looked down to the fire Felsted was making. The old Elves’ breath formed large clouds in the cold air as he bent down and built a pyramid with twigs, bracken and small branches. He then reached in his pocket, and sprinkled fire dust into the branches. The specks of dust touched the wigwam of kindling and instantly fire took hold.
“The folk down in Antrim Gap were melancholy Tarron,” said Felsted stoking the fire with his walking staff. “They were always a little on the miserable side. But, it is true they need hope my Lord,” Tarron replied turning his head a full 360 degrees.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” said Felsted, still looking at the fire.
“Then you shouldn’t look at me with your mind’s eye Master.”
“You do it when you’re stressed,” said Felsted.
“I do not Master,” Tarron replied, unconvincingly. “But… seeing as you mention it… I am concerned that we are a little short in the department of hope.
I think we need another gathering Master.
Galvistad has returned. No matter how many times you slay him, the Lawcundali simply resurrected the giant wolf again — often stronger than his previous incarnation.
Great Lord Boden, I don’t know how we are supposed to defeat such an enemy!”
