The tent was blue.
Midnight blue.
It should have stood out in the silver wasteland, but it had been cunningly erected in a narrow ravine that seemed perpetually lost in shadow. The blue tent seemed to wrap the scant shadows around itself, shrinking back from the light.
Anarok crouched down and peered at the tent.
It was not large. It could, perhaps, accommodate two or three people who wouldn't mind living in close quarters. There was no sign of campfire or mounts. Indeed, the tent appeared quite lifeless, the midnight blue ghost of some poor soul, damned to wander the Silver Hells for eternity.
The thought made Anarok shiver.
