Edric clung to the Elf's words like holy scripture. The blood had been shed decades ago, it's true. But the scars on both sides still ached with the pain and bitterness of grudges unsettled. War did little to solve disputes - it was the town bully pressing your face into the mud until you did as he said. In the grander scheme, it did nothing for the factors that started war in the first place, just delayed it from starting again. Brevyon remembered. The kingdoms overseas remembered. And the Elves, more than anyone, remembered.
At Arendal's use of the word 'possibility', Edric chuckled. It was a coughing sort-of sound, with its intention uncertain. Was it a mocking laugh at what Edric presumed as ignorance? Or a bemused acknowledging of the immaterial? "Small forts like this rarely have the capacity for tremors that I've been sensing. Seem to find those in cultist lairs and necromantic ritual sites. But here--"
Edric stopped. His voice did not trail off as much as it had simply stopped abruptly. He had turned a corner, and seen something to give him pause. Before him laid the Dead Resting. Skeletons, some clad in rusted armor, still clutching onto blunt weapons. Scattered they were: some perched against stone walls, others fallen atop each other, with one or two still bearing the mark of a violent death. That being a blade plunged through now-hollow ribcage, or a dirk through the eye socket. "Oh."
Was all Edric could say.
And the Dead began to shift.