Timeline: Running through Lamedon in the path of the Grey Host.
Spring drew tight and fearful around the lands, and the few brave buds that had dared to sprout stood stark in the sunless world like dead candles. They would wither soon if left unlit. This time Aderthor’s demeanor perfectly matched his surroundings. All cold and grey and unbearably familiar from the sharp fall of the river near the city, to the foothills they had climbed as laughing children. To bright Calembel, home of his childhood, dark and lifeless.
Paths nearly fourteen years’ missed flew past him as he hurried, strange rustlings in the undergrowth and far off animalistic shrieks going unheeded. The whole countryside had gone mad days ago and he was used to it. Fertile, sunny Lamedon had become a nightmare.
“Ho, Aderthor!” Meduiven’s voice cut through the thick despair. “Any sign at the Stone?” The young voice cut at his head, and bit at the bitter memories. He struggled to answer, and even to breathe.
“None. Whatever passed that way is gone now, and has taken most of its terror with them.” His lord, his company, his friends. His brother. All gone, and with them a horde of ghosts whose unflagging miasma had settled over his home.
Meduiven’s face gladdened even in the darkness, and he smiled, unknowing of Aderthor’s private anxieties. “Wonderful news indeed!”
The young man was an age mate of Areher’s, and Aderthor, some years older, hadn’t known him well growing up. Nonetheless, even a slightly familiar face after over a decade of exile had thrown him and continued to throw him. “Aye, it certainly isn’t bad news.” he said at last, swallowing back his fears. “Let us away to tell the captain.”
