The sun had almost reached its highest point when Mûriir began search for a place to rest and to relax his aching body; he had marched without stop for several days. However, such a task was not easy in a valley so spacious, and the moon elf found himself taking concealment in the form of a rock ledge jutted out of the valley side. Mûriir settled below the protruding outcrop of rock on the grass banks, his slender body curled up in the shadow it made. The ledge, he realized, provided a vague shelter from the weathers above and, if luck were on his side, suitable cover from potential foes passing by.

The day hours did pass on, and it was all Mûriir could do to sit in the shelter of the ledge and wait the night to begin his travels again; he was less likely to be observed in the hours of darkness. Despite his best efforts, the moon elf could not find sleep; his conscience continuously burning at the back of his mind would not allow it. He had killed in cold blood and greed. Twice. And his own best friend had been one of his victims. Mûriir had killed before, of course. He had killed for survival in the wilderness, for food and for defense. He had even killed his own father in his anger the day he left his home for this life of traveling. But never had he killed for the desire of possession; never had he killed in cold blood, and never had he killed someone he cared so much about. Care… Mûriir could feel himself even doubting the meaning of the wood. He could hear the voice in the back of his head, questioning… doubting.

In a swift moment, the moon elf had raised from his cover, moving briskly across the valley, his mind racing. He could not rest; he had to keep moving to keep himself distracted from the voices in his head; the voices that taunted and teased and doubted every other thought of his own. He did not understand it… he didn’t want to. The sun made his path light, reflecting brightly off the grass lining the valley and its banks around him. He was an open target here; if there were eyes to see him, they surely would. Keeping his side close to the steep bank, Mûriir moved with the silence and speed of the wind, his crossbow rattling absently on his belt. He was making good distance in such a short time; continuing to move south was the only thing that could keep his mind off the things that were plaguing it. It was likely his distracted mind was the cause of Mûriir not seeing it coming. The sudden pain of the bolt took him suddenly, searing through his left arm and down his side to his thighs; almost immediately he recognized the numbing effect of poison. The leather armor soaked up the moisture that had lingered on the grass on to which he fell, a muffled groan leaving his lips. His pale golden eyes caught a glimpse of a large figure… or two… he realized in exasperated worry that there were many large figures moving swiftly towards him. Orcs. Mûriir cursed himself, as he staggered swiftly to his feet, for orcs were not masters of stealth; they were large, bulking brutes that knew only violence. And before even another venomous bolt could be released, the chase was on. With no place to take cover, the moon elf was left to amble in his current state through the seemingly endless valley, an entourage of orcs charging in his stride. All thoughts of his previous murders were now wiped clean of Mûriir’s mind as his sole focus was on escaping the foes that for no reason wanted him dead.

He knew with displeasure that if he did not find a way to escape them soon he would fall to them; the poison surging through his veins was slowing him down and within minutes he would be unable to move. His thoughts became mixed with the images before him that were now beginning to pulsate as his mind became sedated. He could vaguely hear the pounding footsteps behind him, and could vaguely make out the grass banks on either side but nothing around him was clearly defined, his thoughts being more conscious to him than anything else. His vision was becoming more and more blurred as random thoughts filled his head; thoughts and images that were not appropriate to him now. Mûriir was visually reminded of the day he killed his father with the rapier now shaking in his belt as he ran. He relived the scream his father had given as the newly smelted and white-hot blade was thrust through his chest, and this scream gave birth to another flashback. He witnessed his best friend, Ne’riallr, dropping in anguish to the floor before him, the same rapier that had slain Mûriir’s father protruding from him. The sight made the moon elf slow his pace as he tried to fight away the feverish reminders so clear before him, but they only became less vivid and more bona fide, and Mûriir began to believe he truly was at the murder scene of Ne’riallr. But then he saw himself, as the one image gave way to the other, merging into it in a seamlessly dream-like fashion. He stood there, staring back at him as though a reflection in a lake. But this was no reflection and the image before him was not staggering through an isolated valley. The replica before him was laughing, a cold and mocking laugh, and Mûriir closed his eyes to make it go away… but it did not.

The image began to fade into no more than a black silhouette of himself. A shadow. But the pale golden eyes remained, staring into Mûriir’s mind without even a single blink, challenging him to regain the conscience he seemed to be losing. All he could see now was the shadow; the valley was gone and the orcs with it. But he could hear them, vaguely, snorting and grunting, stamping their heavy feet on the grass as they chased. And the shadow silhouette in his mind spoke to him in his own voice, blocking off his own thoughts and letting him think only what it said. Don’t run from them, my di’thang. Never run. You cannot chase what you cannot see, and you cannot kill what isn’t there. Let the shadows take us, my di’thang. Let them take us. He didn’t let them, but either way the shadow of the grass bank beside the fleeing moon elf washed over him. The feverish images left his dazed eyes, yet all he could see was darkness. The shadows were holding him, clinging to his body, dragging him back into them. There were shapes all around him, yet he could barely make them out through the shadows. It took Mûriir a moment to realize that the shapes were the orcs around him… they seemed lost, he noticed; they could not see him. The moon elf’s slender fingers moved to the crossbow at his thigh, but the poisoning effects of the bolt wound were certainly not getting any better, and he made an unconscious decision to slump to the grass instead. Trying his hardest to keep his panting to a minimum, Mûriir watched the shapes of the orcish bandits moving away. They had lost their victim to the shadows, and this both confused and annoyed them. A bewildered and pained whimper left Mûriir’s lips when the orcs were far enough out of hearing range. He didn’t understand any of what had happened, and he had the gut feeling he didn’t want to. With these musings in mind, the poisoned moon elf wanderer fell into a troubled unconsciousness.