Peregrine goes out into the woods...

Perry goes out into the woods, the Witchwood, with Doomlorde. He skulks along the eastern edge, scouting the pass between there and the Darkin Woods. It doesn't take long before he is moving like an animal, he is as a bear. He sheds his boots, his tunic, thoughtlessly. He feels the loam of the forest floor between his toes. He is home and the hearth fire is the fire that burns within him.

He speaks with the animals, not only to seek the enemy, but to know them and the ways of the Witchwood.

Soon, he moves and sings the song of the forest with the birds, the foxes, the leaves on the trees and the very spiders between the branches. He is in tune with each tree. He feels them. Each touch is a greeting, an acknowledgement of their kinship. He forgets that he is a man, and is he anymore? He is propelled as much by his hands across mighty roots as his feet across jagged stones.

Where is his quarry? He seeks their position, breathes the air to catch their scent, the scent of unbridled destruction and loathing, the scent of the Red Hand. "Tell me, Doomlorde," he growls, "do you smell what I smell?" They are a unit, together evaluating the pass, watching for the enemy, watching out for each other. Are they encamped nearby? Do they have scouts? They take their number and note their positions.

They continue in this way to the northern edge of the Witchwood. Beyond lies the Swamps of Rhest, and the lands of the lizard men to the northeast. His sortie complete, he returns. He knows, though he is at home here, though each of them must die or be scattered, he is but one against thousands and must return to his kind. He must warn them, rally them, bend them to face and break the tide, to save what has been built and is still barely born.

The memory of Drellin's Ferry clouds his mind. That was a failure. The vacancy there is like the quiet lull, an illusion of stability, before balance quickly accelerates, unchecked, into chaos. In spite of Bree's bravery, the crumbling of the bridge, the people of Drellin's fled, leaving the town to anything passing. Even a miniscule band could raze her to the ground.

So much is lost if Drellin's Ferry burns, and why won't it?

"We must not despair, Doomlorde," growls Peregrine, striding over a stretch of fallen logs, "Despair is the call of the Underside. We must recognize that the fate of Drellin's Ferry is in accordance with the Turning of the Wheel. We must look to the Vale, now."

But the flicker of the flame within him makes him wonder, does he believe it?