Elven could sense the shocked and disheartened mood of the rest of their convoy by their utter silence as they began to make their way along the road and through the desolate fields. Like him, they had been expecting to see great fields of green, luscious growth and fruitful trees abounding everywhere. The tales of old, the legends and myths, held that Kiriün was bountiful land of plenty, a place of year-round harvests and free-flowing drink.
By the following morning, the rain had abated only a little, and Elven was thoroughly as wet and miserable as he had ever been. No one had spoken much since Tharom’s song of the previous evening, and it was in grim silence they set out in the gray dawn, Elỳn leading the way. Farathé’s party would have advanced some miles since the day before, it was assumed, and so they followed the stream from the village as it meandered south and west: it would cross Farathé’s path eventually, Elỳn said. It was not easy going, for there was no road, and the stream had grown wide and spilled over its own banks, creating great marshes and swamps from the grasslands.
The greatlord, it seemed, had set up camp in the outskirts of the town, and though he rode on horseback with his men he did not travel without comfort. A great tent had been erected, fit to house a battalion of soldiers, and within it was laid out what seemed almost to be a palace in miniature, resplendent in golds and reds, with a grand table in the center for dining. The many carriages it took to carry all of this were arranged in a crescent around the tent, with the opening facing the north.
Satis Writes 