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The journey had felt long to Makny, though it was only a few days slow ride from Førstlys. He and his father had been through several towns and villages along the way, though they had kept to themselves rather than announce their presence. As his father said, it was far easier for them to learn the minds of the people if the people did not know who they were. So they had traveled alone, unannounced, and humble, observing what they could from horseback and making note of what directions they ought give along their return trip. They overtook an older fellow leading a cart laden with bags of grain just before entering the village of Sorgheim. As they passed through the gate, Makny saw what appeared to be a large lantern set in the center of a circle of eight carved stone columns. The glass inside it was broken, and its columns were worn and crumbling, with moss slowly climbing their bases. Makny watched the townsfolk pass the lantern indifferently, but he could not ignore it. “Father, what is that?” he gestured as he asked. His father answered slowly, seeming to concentrate on weaving his horse through the traffic around them. “A remnant,” came the reply, “of a people long gone from these shores. All but forgotten, I think... though we might see for ourselves soon enough.” There was a concealing air and a strange distance to his voice, though Makny barely registered it, caught up as he now was in the activity that swirled around them. Everywhere the village folk were hard at work, hustling to and fro, shouting greetings back and forth, while above it all the Jarl's soldiers stoically paced the barricade. They followed the sandy, well-worn path up the hill, past the flour mill and the low-slung storehouse, and deeper into the village proper. Overhead, the early summer sun was bright in a clear blue sky. As it shone warmly on his shoulders, Makny began to feel the drowsy weight of several nights spent in the dew on ground, and he hoped against hope that tonight might find him in a soft bed with a roof above him.
