Bramblepoint when the sun is perched at it's highest peak,

he was brought back to the present in an instantaneous moment ; and echoing crack of a twig that made his tall ears twitch, moved his eyes towards the sound. he looked, then, seeking its source, when an image of a short man swathed in midnight found him. an awkward expression upon his face. iseldur's browbone raised for a moment.

no, he returned, an accent of his own thick upon his tongue, teeming, spilling from his lips. it spoke of grian-thalamh, of the cumail. verdant gaze returned to the treeline. considering entrance, the knight murmured. not much within. no longer orchard. you smell sweetness? a faint reminder of the fruit that once belonged to these woods.

a sigh, then looking back to the stranger, he said: empty. waste.