I have dreamed before the dawn of silent figures in the night, born of darkness, who scurry above the plains in search of the lost and wandering. A soul, a body, a face to wear, is all they want before the sunlight drives them back into their holes.
I have no great love for the man, but I know what sort of man he is. He would take them to himself and be their hiding place. Now more than ever, cut off from all he knows, he is primed for resentment, to seek vengeance, and they would gladly offer it.
Tale Told 