To return to a wounded reverie was a folly err conducted by any mortal. The Bard was asinine enough to unlace the thread that tethered his own arcahic memory, and was beginning to rue it. “Magnificently barren, this be,” The Elven Lord muttered, trekking over razor pronged debris with methodical steps. “I cannot fathom it, how some people could still reside here after The Fall.” Garlic tarried behind him, faithfully guiding his feet across soot and lichen bespoiling the surface. One blunder of a step and the pair would soar to the next morrow. “They’d have no where else to go,” Said the Bard, shifting to embrace a wall. “No home to call their own.” The Realm and the average of its citizens were not wealthy as Tyr. The boy was insolent to understand such a concept. They’d be enthralled by poverty, more so. “But to dwell here, within miasma and drought? With no crop to spare?” The Elf lept over a sheaf of shattered stone and landed with a delicate thud. “It is madness.” Garlic followed suit. Madness or naught, these ruinous lands were still a home to the people. Their hearts were planted within its soil, the roots clinging upon what was still breathing. They were stuck here. “Mind your own, they shall live.” It was once Garlic’s dwelling, too. “Ahead.” The Bard slithered through a door ajar, and froze cold. (Tbc)