[Will Witfoot]

Fungrim sat at the cooking fire staring moroselly into the flames, an empty soup bowl in front of him. In his hand was a full flagon of ale and in his mouth his long wooden pipe.
He wondered if the child was going ot be allright. He certainly hoped so, but she had obviously spent quite some time in the cramped kitchen cupboard, smoke obscurring her breath and the heat eating away at her strenght. Well, if anyone could heal her proper, it was those elf women that did most of the healing in the aftermath of the fire. He had left the girl into the care of one of them and hoped that she could save her.

He blew a great cloud of acrid blue smoke and took a sip of the beer. Why, he wondered, did he care so much for the child? Most of his emotions had been corroded by the time spent away in the wilds, burried somewhere deep like a collapsed mining shaft under tons of rock. Why would they choose to surface now?
He thought he knew the answer. He had spent the prime of his life alone, scrapping a living out of the forests of the world, slaughtering the beasts of darkness that still lingered in the world even after their dark master had been defeated. The child provided a point of focus and something that he could concentrate upon. The worry he held over her served to fill his life with some small purpose.

He looked at the smoking remainders of the inn. The locals would have their work cut for them in the rebuilding of the place. Perhaps he should stay and help too. He gave a small smile with some irony in it at that. What else did he have to do?