Here and there, newbies run happily, bumping into buildings in their enthusiasm, and trampling crops in their innocent hunt for 'monsters'. 'Oh to retain a measure of that innocence' he thinks, and turns his eyes towards the towering Withered Peaks. Several of the more 'seasoned' newbies, he knows, will be questing deep in their roots, happily hacking goblins into pieces. Many will be singing the story of their exploits in Angor's pub later, no doubt embelishing the fights, as they are wont to do.
A voice carries to him on the wind. Although the words are too faint to hear, the instant rumble of thunder overhead tells him that it was no doubt a Druid summoning a storm. Larnen sighs again, and pulls his cloak more tightly round him. Gods, no matter what others may say, still get wet when it rains. The dark clouds have brought the day to an early close too, and lights begin to be lit in the towns and villages of the Realms.
Larnen leans back against the tree, and closes his eyes. 'Something is missing' he thinks, but he cannot place quite what. Settling down for a snooze, soon he is lost in the shadows of the night, and the only sound is the incessent patter of the rain.