Murkcrow was out for a walk. In his spare time he often roamed the lands around his home, a habit, he supposed, he had picked up from his mother, who had often regaled her offspring with tales of her wanderings. Not that he'd believed a word of them for a second, except for one, the most fantastic, an event that had left scars across Matope that few kin would miss. It had happened before he was born, but it really hadn't been that long ago. Shadelight could hardly be considered "old."
"Once, there was a great flood," Murkcrow recited as he walked. "A wall of water swept across the land, moving south from the plains of the Kiokote. Trees that had stood longer than memory were felled; massive boulders were dislodged and flung to far-off places. Many animals died...and kin." This was maybe not the most cheery story, but tales of the flood had always fascinated him.
