The Elf and the Lynx were out prowling, so Khanadan took the opportunity to sit and think, something there hadn't been much time for since they had reached the barren hills of the Lone Lands.
The trail had run dry. Perhaps it was the rocky terrain, or perhaps the man they tracked had doubled back and was no longer near. For two days now there had been no sign, and the Elf was growing increasingly discontent and impatient. Not that Gwandalion would say anything, of course, but the young master of Lore had a remarkable gift for reading the unspoken language of men and beasts...or Elves, in this case. Khanadan was used to seeing the expression of disgust and fear on the faces of those who first beheld his southern complexion, and though it was far more subtle on an elvish face, it was also unmistakable. There was no time to dwell on that, though. Something the man, Harugrim, had said as he threatened the Lady Alkawen at knifepoint had stayed with him and continued to trouble his mind.
"If you want to know who did this, ask him..." Harugrim's eyes had blazed with hatred as he pointed directly at Khanadan.
The small campfire sputtered and belched out a small explosion of sparks as the flame wrapped itself around a piece of dried brush. The man paid it no heed, but sat lost in thought as the small points of flame disappeared into the night. Northern eyes see only one face when they behold the brown complexion of the far southern lands, and while Khanadan had nothing to do with the terrible fire at the Warhorse Inn it was obvious that someone from his one-time homeland of Khand was deeply involved.
He felt a sudden pressure on his leg as Ninim, the snow lynx that travelled with him, rubbed against him purring loudly. Khanadan looked up to see the elf standing there, as well. He could read it on Gwandalion's face; once more the trail was not to be found. Sighing, he reached for his staff and raised himself to his feet.
"Then we go back...."
