This is a woman who took men to her bed, using them 'til they were spent. Telling her own daughter in the room where we stand now that she expected the same of her. Is that what you tell a child? [Harder to keep the temper in check, to keep the bitter unfairness of it all beneath her heel and under her thumb. None of them lived it.] Flemeth tis but a story to you. She was my mother. Is my mother. Will be my mother unless an end is put to her but that was not so easy to accomplish.

[Morrigan crosses the room, opens a chest and slips off her travel pack. Inside the chest is nothing of great value but bolts of fabric, feathers, stones, some pins.]

We cannot search aimlessly for her and she will not be within if she is not here. The Chasind are next yet to search for them lacking direction is to go to chasing ones death.