Fain and the Darkfriends and the Trollocs had to leave some mark. Slowly the petals unfolded, turning toward the light, absorbing the light. Down there, in Falme. Maybe somebody will.
Padan Fain reined in his horse atop a hill above Falme, in one of the few sparse thickets remaining on the hills outside the town. The stout proprietress, with her hair rolled at the back of her head, was wiping a mug, keeping a sharp eye on her establishment. Listen to me, you great ox. I know I've said that before, but these people really are.
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