They say, that - in the confusion that followed the splitting of the Triforce - nature itself broke and the Goddesses turned their gaze from the land; that in the hour of greatest need nothing had happened to halt the outbreak of war and death. With combatants as powerful as they were, civilians were nothing more than fodder against the power-hungry and the mad.

But all conflict has a habit of stagnating into order, given time. Without its heroes to defend the land, the ruins of market stalls once again drew crowds that huddled together like insects - perhaps influenced by the subterranean power of Gohma, dwelling so far beneath. In their fear, they jostled, pushed and cursed one another while trying to get bread and water - in their greed, the weak were trampled in an attempt to create an artificial sense of strength for the survivors. And when a silence entered the air and unnatural lights dashed across the skyline or faint sounds, indescribable, were heard - the crowds vanished back to whatever safe havens they thought they had.

It was in this mob that Frazl dashed from one stall to the next, whispering into the ears of desperate shoppers that this piece of twisted metal could protect against the corruption of the dark powers, and cajoling that this Moblin tooth would frighten away raiders and the insane.

Of course, he was as desperate as all of them. In the end, the only person who would look out for you was yourself - the age of Heroes had ended. No, you could not rely on the tall fools for protection any more than they could rely on his wares for safety... But the illusion still lingered.

As if from far away, an unquiet whistling echoed around the streets. Frazl's eyes dilated and he cast his expression about, looking nervously for the cause of the sound and a possible place to hide.