The great plateau of Grinwallin
He hunkered down on the unmarked turf. There was no sign, not even the slightest mound or depression to show that Neolone’s mortal remains lay buried in the level plain that was Grinwallin's plateau. But he was there and the place was forever etched into his memory.
Torrullin touched his chest, an unconscious gesture from the past when the Dragon on his chest had been the symbol of leadership. The Dragon Neolone hadn’t just been a symbol, a physical manifestation of sovereignty, however, but alive, sentient, a force in battle. He still missed the creature. In the end only the damned Dragon had known him.
Sighing, he rose. It was so ephemeral. If Neolone, millions of years old, didn’t survive, how could anyone expect to? Even the Immortal Guardians were now gone, but for one Centuar, one Siric and the Q’lin’la. Of the Ancients only the birdmen, Declan and the Senlu remained, the latter only because they had re-risen two thousand years ago. Belun was next in age and then himself, although the two of them were not close to Ancient, with Belun having the greater claim. And when all was said and done, the only true Immortal companion he could expect to be with him into goddamned eternity was…Teighlar. There was no one else. He turned to study Grinwallin in the moonlight. Paper lanterns lit the streets and courtyards in pools of colour, unseen from where he stood, so that he saw the silvery tips of roofs and walls with the suggestion of colour rising up.