The refugee camp was a sprawling, chaotic patchwork of tents and cookfires. The elves within were tired and worn, wearing scraps and old, faded cloaks. A few children ran and scurried between tents and around weary adults, earning glares and sharp rebukes, but most just curled up against canvas tents, staring listlessly at the ground.
I braced myself for the stares, glares, and fear that came whenever I went anywhere with Fable, but they never came. The most we drew were a few weary looks, but as soon as it became clear we weren't stopping or engaging anyone, the refugees largely ignored us.
"It's so sad," R'lissea murmured, looking around with sad eyes. "I almost miss the stares, but who can blame them? A hero and a few demonkin aren't worth mentioning against the horrors they've seen."
