Bearclaw Valley Like the generations of leaves, the lives of mortal men.

The low burn of the man's voice kept him from falling asleep, which his body quietly requested of him, and that was good. Had he drifted in the dark and let it swallow him he would surely be submerged, never to be free of it.

Get up, Tuur. The bruin-witch rasped as he shouldered the boy. A small cry leaked from Karst's chest but he did rise, doing as he was told, although he stumbled soon after.

The raggedy boy's ears slanted on his head, sideways at first and then back, and he almost did not rise again. It was tempting not to; so much effort to keep on going — and where was he going? Why should he go?

He's gone, the boy lamented piteously, breathing in the frost and the allspice of Merrick's residual scent, and turned his head to look the other way. Gone.