Now I’m on the verge of throwing away what I would once have killed for. Frag it all. Luther. Magellan. Whoever has condemned me to wonder about all this drek. All the loose ends; I never did find the scarred man, though maybe he ended up just another nameless body somewhere in that charnel house at Schwandorf. I’ll never know. And frag running from one place to the next, hanging around for only a week or a month or a season, then packing up the same suitcase with the same handful of things, all just so I can keep on with the same old running and moving and running just for something to do. Yes, I’m twice her age. I’m an elf, she’s human. So what? It just means we’ll grow old at about the same pace.