The man watched Felix closely, moving from one side of his wreck to the other. Using his dead horse as cover, he got himself a pretty close look, and recognized Felix's garb immediately. But he didn't say anything. The horse he peered over had a series of holes carved out of its neck, like something had shot it, or rather, [i]bit into it.[/i] The man didn't seem too bothered by the fact. He didn't speak again. Not a word. He let Felix continue down the road, eyeing him cautiously as he disappeared towards his destination.

	An hour passed, and his path was unimpeded. No rogues, no monsters, and not a single shift in atmosphere. He wasn't lost. Ulon was only about a day away on foot, so an hour wasn't long, relatively speaking. But didn't Durwith mention how the south was currently, how did he put it.. Warring? Something along those lines. Where was the bloodshed? Where were the people? Perhaps the villages were far more scattered than Felix had thought.

	Not ten minutes later though, something peered over the horizon. A silhouette of hills, grey and ragged like stone, that looked far closer than the giant mountain-line in the far east that lined the edge of Jorgon. The closer he came, the more detail revealed itself. There were figures, smaller than humans, littered throughout the exterior of the rock-like hills. It was too difficult to discern what they were from so far away, but they were definitely alive.