The first sun that rose over Sennol, spreading it rays across the plain. The site of the last great battle left its indelible mark on the landscape. Giant fissures lay across the ground, disappearing into ravines in the mountains. Nothing had moved since then, all people left its barren wastes, destroyed by fire and molten magma, alone. No life was there, no animals went there, because nothing grew. Where Mount Triune once stood was now a wide hill, with its centre a source of smoke and foul gases. A bubbling pit of glowing red and orange magma.

There was some movement in the shadows. Two men, aged from their crouched walking positions, slowly climbed over the cold magma piles. One of them slipped and recovered, the other grabbing his hand and pulling him up and over the next rock.

He pointed at a cairn along the cliff edge a league in front of them.

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Slowly they made their way over to the spot. It took them nearly half the morning and the second sun rose, brightening the scene as they reached the landmark.

They stood at its base and looked around. Almost hidden in the shadows of the cairn there was a rock, long and thin. The man lowered his pack to the ground and opened it. From it he withdrew a large hammer and chisel. He began to chip away some cold magma along the thin rock that was attached to the cairn. Small pieces of the rock fell away revealing a glint of shiny black steel. He kept chipping along the length till it was mostly visible, revealing that it was a sword that had been covered in molten magma. It finally fell into his hands and the man with the white beard grasped it by the hilt and raised it up in the sunshine. The Bald man with a grey beard cackled with laughter and then quickly wrapped it in cloth, strapping it to his pack. They rested a while, drinking and eating then painfully made their way back the way they had come, eventually back onto the plain and walking toward the west.