Rough hands on polished stone. Herrig ran his fingers over what was left of the wall, his calloused touch tracing out each intricate detail of the relief, feeling every careful etching in mute wonder. The finest works of his fathers were but the dumb scratchings of children next to even the ruin of this piece. It made him feel strangely small, more than even the mountains had.
Who had been the mason? Where were his people? Worked into the crumbling stone was the vision of a city that defied the imagination of the Woodman. Walls and domes, towers and spires reaching to the skies, eagles high above. Yet about him now was an empty and silent land, all that remained were thickets of holly and this last lonely wall.
Herrig’s gaze wandered up to the skies, almost expecting to glimpse a lingering eagle soar above. All he saw were grey clouds, yet his memories were clearer than any carving and they came back painfully. The rush of wind, the cries of men, the notching of a fateful arrow.
Herrig remembered the elation, which turned to doubt, then of course to sorrow. He drew his hand back from the stone, the coldness of it stayed with him. He wished to be gone from this place. Herrig felt now like he was stood upon a grave - one he had helped dig.
