Silently she turned to look upon the charred ruins of her small home, her eyes locking in the pain that her heart so poignantly felt. Memories, tumbling in thick suffocating waves, etching into her mind as she took one last glance upon the smoldering ruins, her glance settling upon the mound of fresh earth that sat before a large ancient tree. Her lips trembled, her eyes filling with hot tears. She wanted so much to bring him back, but knew he was beyond her reach. A cry locked in her parched throat, her shoulders shaking with quiet agony and loss. “Mother?” Dahlia stopped, the voice of her son piercing through the pain, she blinked the tears from her eyes and straightened her shoulders. She turned to him, smiling that soft mother’s smile. “Yes Tobias?” Dahlia looked upon her son with great pride, a strapping young lad who’s talent with his tools would get him far. Tobias stood beside three heavily laden pack llamas, his hands firmly grasping the reigns of the wily lot. His pale blond hair, the same lustrous wheat color as his mother’s, was pulled tightly away from his face, fastened with a thin twine of leather. A fine shadow of a beard traced his still full and youthful face, his stance tall and strong, bright green eyes still holding the merriment of youth and the severity of coming of age. “Where are we going Mother?” He asked awkwardly, his voice cracking and rising an uncomfortable octave. “The Free Port of Havenhold,” Dahlia glanced once more at the grave “it is our only hope.” “To Auntie Frieda’s?” He asked, his face showing signs of his tender youth. “Yes dear.” Tobias nodded, then gained his mount, solemnly he led the packs out of the small valley. Dahlia shouldered her pack, her eyes sweeping once more over the ruins of her home, then joined her son on the long journey.