Exodus~
Brynmohr
Twelvestones
Twelvestones teemed with refugees. Brynmohr scanned the crowded banquet hall, coming to terms with the gravity of their plight. Families and lone nenes, thrown together by circumstance, huddled beneath its grand tables and camped along its jeweled walls.
A baby crawled to a blanket’s edge and fretted when her mother pulled her back. Her father stroked a whetstone along a blade, his hand bandaged from an injury he’d taken defending his family. The baby’s grandmother chanted prayers to the obscure and distant gods who’d grown apathetic to the entreaties of their kind long ago.
Brynmohr walked amongst them. His people. Twelvestones drew them like moths to a flame, flying home to the last bastion of nene strength. Nenes scattered to the winds by ages-old rift
