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Shivering in the damp, tar-ancalime pulled her cloak closer. She settled herself against the eastern face of the standing stone and breathed the misty air. The fog was thick, kissing her eyelashes with cold dew. She reflected as she waited.
Had there ever been a barrow? Had there ever been a Wight?
It seemed unlikely in the chill. Yet tar-ancalime remembered. Scores, even hundreds of Dead. Decaying corpses in the barrow. Princes, Auras, Shades. A great wealth of shining green jewels.
Her memories faded as the heavy cold pressed her. She would enter or freeze. Still the standing stone remained, and the chill turf.
Halfway to a dangerous sleep she felt a new fear. The Wight had forbidden her the barrow. Had he purged his realm of those unbelievers who chose screennames without the proper accent marks?
She was overcome. She slept.
She awoke in Rohan.
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