The long, nimble finger traced the path of the stream through the forest, a finger attached to a hand that was as deadly as any weapon a blacksmith could forge.

“The Hrithmore are camped, at this bend in the stream,” Dirge was saying, his finger jabbing into a spot on the map.

Traian stared out the window as the setting sun painted the sky in brilliant shades of gold, red, orange, and purple.

“Traian. Are you listening?”

Traian kept staring out the window.

Dirge sighed, stroking his pointed goatee. He walked over, gently put a hand on Traian’s tense shoulder.

“The sun,” Dirge stated, poetically. “What a fearsome dichotomy. It provides warmth and light, but it also creates droughts and forest fires. It sustains life while destroying it.”
He turned Traian so they were facing each other. “That’s us, Traian. We are that fearsome dichotomy. We sustain through destruction!”

A knock sounded on the door. Bethseba was here.

The man smiled. “I’ll leave you two alone.”