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. The
beams gave way with him, and the goblins watched and
laughed as Orestes fell into the attic, which fell around him
in turn, crashing down and up again in a rapture of fire.
But he lived. He was fire-marked, hated of men, and
they would know him by his scars henceforth. The burns
had bitten deep and his face was forever changed into a
stiffened mask of grief. A fugitive and a vagabond he was
upon Krynn, and wherever he traveled, they turned him
away. To Kaolin he went, and to Garnet, as far north as
Thelgaard Keep and south to the coast of Abanasinia. In all
places, his scars and his story arrived before him - the tale
of a bard who, with a single verse of a song, had set his
country to blaze and ruin.
He took to bride a woman from Mercher, orphaned by the
invasion and struck mute by goblin atrocity as they passed
through with their flames and long knives. Orestes spirited
her away to the woods of Lemish, where in seclusion they
lived a dozen years in narrow hope.
A dozen years, the druidess said, in which the child they
awaited never came.
That part I knew. Mother had told me when I was very
little, the soft arc of her hand assuring me how much they
had waited and planned and imagined.
That part I knew. And Mother had shared his death with
none but me. But I had never heard just how he had died.
"In despair," the Lady Yman told me, the cavern
lapsing into shadow as her brown, leafy robes blocked out
the firelight, the reflection on the ice. "Despair that his
country was burning still, and that no children of his would
extinguish the fires
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