[Tinuviel of Denton]

Kestrel had left most of their belongings behind in the hut, since she could not carry both her children as well. Flint was ensconced on her shoulder, his head resting by her cheek and his tiny fingers gripping her hair, which she ignored even when he accidentally pulled. Rain had been riding on her hip until dawn, when the light woke her, and now trotted alongside her mother, clutching at her leather tunic with a grubby hand. They made a pitiful sight, all told.

The buildings in straight lines that had so amused and puzzled the warriors the previous night did not look so grand now. Perhaps that was because of the rubble that surrounded them, and the scorch marks from the previous evening's fire. Perhaps it was merely that Kestrel was less interested in the architecture than in asylum.

The men who were moving around the buildings looked very different from the men she was used to seeing. They were taller, straighter, and their clothing was very, very different. She felt more and more uncomfortable by the moment, but it was far too late to turn back now. Her absence was almost certainly discovered, and she somehow doubted that she would be welcomed back with open arms. More like drawn bows. If any of the warriors had survived the night, that is.

She held Flint tighter and reached down to clasp Rain's little hand in her own as one of the men glanced up, spotted her, and pointed, shouting something she couldn't quite make out.