From a bluff not far from the Hawthorne Farm a lone figure looks down searching for signs of life. He leans with one hand clutching the trunk of a withered spruce, but his calloused palms do not register the abrasive rasp. Yes, He thinks, more with feelings of longing than with words. I've waited too long already, it is time to come down and see.
Before taking his leave to break camp, he takes a moment to cross himself and bow his head. He speaks aloud with a deep voice harsh and rasping with lack of use. "Lord God, forgive me, a sinner..."