… Eathelon walked along a narrow trail that hugged the eastern side of the Fyr Mountains, a mere speck, dwarfed by the high barren peaks. He made his way north in silence, toward the Moors, doing his best to remain hidden, for he did not know these lands or what creatures might dwell in them. To his right, he saw the wide plains of Gorst sloping down to the Eastmost Sea, and he mused how the beauty of the scene contrasted with the evil he knew dwelt there. 

Camouflaged against the mountainside, he had no need to hunt, for the Fyrls had provided him food enough for a week, sufficient time for him to reach the Moors, they said.

He did not know where to look for the Druid, but decided that once he reached the Moors, the Druid would find him. He only hoped nothing else found him first. He had heard about trelks and other foul creatures that lived here.

A full month had now passed, since he and Tholin had left Lingolia. It was

 Andril— Midwinter, with Rèna— Earlyspring only eight short weeks away.

The pressure of time to complete his errand bore down on him like an enemy determined to thwart his persistence.