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For two and a half days Durgan walked, leaving the capital behind him, walked until his feet was too blistered to walk, and within the noisy shadows of a windmill, Durgan then hid himself, silently mourning the loss of his people.

Among the maddening noise, Durgan carved pictures into the wood around him. Once familiar, the shapes now looked alien to him.

He could no longer hear the voice of his goddess. She had set him free, to roam the savage wilderness he never knew existed, abandoned and lost.

All he knew now, was hunger and sleep.

At least he was dead to the world.