Wanderlust

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A still, dense mist prevailed in Wayreth Forest on a cool autumn day. The light that filtered through the thick canopy was gray and dull, so that the forest, too, looked flat and pallid. Occasionally a leaf bounced and shook as if brushed by unseen hands when collected moisture dripped off.

Two dwarves moved through the obscuring vapor, struggling with the weight of a lifeless body sagging between them. They were dressed plainly in woolen shirts, wide belts, and trousers tucked into heavy boots. They carried their burden to a clump of young birches and dumped it among the damp grasses, then leaned on the shovels they carried along.

"We should dig a grave," said the first, scraping thoughtlessly at his bare chin. He was still young and wore his long hair, cropped short at the bangs, like an apprentice.

The second dwarf shook his long beard. "There's hardly enough left of him to bother. His kin didn't care enough to claim him. I'm not going to break my back over his carcass.

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