Pain. It was everywhere.

For an unknown time, it was all I could sense. I could feel it. I could taste it. I could breathe it.

My island was awash in pain, and so too am I. We are bound together, the land and I.

I could hear Garl and some of the Silvers just beyond the sanctuary he'd brought me to. But I could not bring myself to move for what seemed like ages.

We, the land I would heal. But what would the scars be? How deep do they run?

I rose from the place I had occupied. Everywhere was destruction, death, decay.

The Silvers had begun work to clear the Isle of the remains of the invaders. They'd begun clearing the place that had been my home in progress.

The corner stone remained where it had been placed. It alone seemed to have escaped the twisting magic of the invaders. It alone remains pristine pale salmon, but there is no brilliant green around it. There is only blackened remains.

Garl paused as I walked amidst the ruins. His gaze following me as I surveyed the damage, leaning heavily upon my staff. The damage to my hand from sending the Annarans back to Hell had not healed. For elves, it signifies a deep and dangerous wound.

Even now, the cut opens, and my blood stains the white wood of my staff.

I moved quietly toward Garl. "Ah mus' needs r'turn tae RhyDin. Ah mus' see 'f th' blade ist well 'n trula gone."

He nodded, and I took advantage of the relaxed safeguards around the Emerald Islands to return to RhyDin.