Qeya River outstretched arm, and upturned hand

a rueful smile played the fringes of imrathil's pocked visage; he had struck a chord in the old northerner, though not deliberately. he felt a thin shake of guilt to antagonize the man so dear to him, but could tell the fire that flickered in the tundrian's singular eye was not tempered towards him.

it was not to say he doubted wardruna's words -- he believed the male was quite capable -- but imrathil earnestly believed also in his own shortcomings, which hounded him like small daemons. particularly, the lapse in his memory -- who was he, what was he -- and when he discovered these things, would he like what he found?

a nagging thing lurked over him, heavy as the presence of a stormcloud but undiscernable. something loomed the horizon, fretting his mind, so that he expected monsters around every corner. he pushed these thoughts deep, drowning them with idle and superficial thoughts of the day, the weather, wardruna's mood -- anything to close the lid on the torrent he so barely controlled.

"what is the south like?" he finally asked, brow furrowed. something in him said he should know - once more he felt troubled.