Around the edge of the gorge , a few hovels cling to the rare hummocks of dry ground and snaking roots—the hamlets of desperate refugees who have come to this place to escape the war. Despair and hopelessness drives them here, for if they thought they had any other options, no one would choose to live in the disquieting darkness, where bandits or worse prey on the miserable. Fear rules their lives as much now as it did in the orc-run villages most of them fled, and it cannot be said that they have much improved their lot.
The Caransil tolerate them, the way one might tolerate a particularly bedraggled and pathetic-looking rat sitting on one’s step during a rainstorm. As soon as the storm is past, it will have to go, but one doesn’t quite have the heart to chase it out to drown. So long as they don’t make too much trouble, the humans are reluctantly permitted to remain.