They marked her grave with a simple headstone, upon which Tumbor was asked to etch the day’s date, a day that was rapidly descending into nightfall. Under protest, they stopped him from adding ‘WITCH’, insisting no good would come of it.
“Folk should know what happened here,” insisted the dwarf. “That it is now safe to return.”
“There is no cause for folk to return. With the demand for wood on a decline, and that which is left is under the protection of Elves.”
“Jax is right,” offered Rohlen. “Giver will now no doubt fall silent and be reclaimed by nature as the Elves cultivate the surrounding woodland.”
Tumbor shook his head and kicked at the dirt as he wandered off towards the old woman’s now vacant home.
“Too many trees. Solid dwarven mined stone, that’s the answer.”
The three followed him into the warmth, a roaring fire dominating the centre of the home with a large cooking pot hanging over it. The smell coming from it had all four inhaling deeply, their hunger now showing.
“One day, a generation shall witness the mountains crumble and the stone run dry.” reflected Rohlen. “And you cannot replant stone.”
“Nonsense!” laughed Tumbor stirring the contents of the pot. “Mountains crumble!”