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    The nursery.


    There was a village nearby, down in the valley. Quaraun had seen it the day before. He could have gone there and looked for a room to rent, a bed to sleep in, so as to not have to sleep on the cold hard ground. Quaraun preferred to sleep in his tent, in the forest, away from Human populations. He was the last Elf. Few Humans these days even believed that Elves had ever been once real, so it was generally best to avoid Human villages until scouting out the beliefs of the local cultures and knowing their thoughts on magical creatures, like Elves.


    "...a black mirror, a silver dagger, and a white feather. A white bird''s wing, on its head, and a white cloth with black lines over it as a bandage for a wound.


    A white dress, black feathers on top of each head, black clothes, and white boots.


    A black crow carrying something in it''s talons, feathers ruffled like they had been through wind. An empty cage, with its contents long gone.


    The three children who had been playing with the ravens before, now standing beside him. They were no longer laughing or screaming as they used to, but their eyes seemed dull with grief and despair, tears running down their faces, hands shaking as they looked around at what was left of the forest they had once known so well.


    There were trees and flowers everywhere, birds singing, animals running through the field, rabbits hopping from tree to tree, butterflies and butterflies flying in the air. The raven in front of them, though, was still just dead; nothing was alive anymore. There were no life, no movement, no life except for that one little, white feather floating in the air, drifting up and away until it could no longer be seen. He watched as it fluttered further away into the sky.


    He felt like he should be angry or sad about this..."