He passed a mass grave near Moonbrook. His knees buckled as he passed it, and he came back to stare. It seemed the farmers had discovered where he had dumped the bodies of the disobedient and the failed experiments. A shrine and obvious signs of consecration did little to make him feel better.
While he was staring at it, a pair of paladins, obviously of Fordrellon’s order, though Fordrellon wasn’t with them, came by to pay their respects. One saluted him, but they both left him alone, perhaps assuming he was mourning the people killed in silence. And he was, in a way.
Rain came in the evening, though it broke briefly around sunset. Seryth roused himself enough to make a shelter, but he was too depressed for anything else. His triumph against the gnolls and bandits had given him hope he might yet be redeemed, but seeing the aftermath of his reign squashed that notion. He felt he’d have to die a thousand deaths, live a thousand lives, before he could expunge the black mark on his soul.
It was then he decided it was time to proceed to the Shadowlands. He could do no more good here, and the well-being of the whelpling was dependent on him. He held no illusion there was hope for himself.