He wandered. His wounds bled and smarted and eventually scarred, but the Forgemaster was unmoved. Kozz left the city with a trail of senseless but very much still breathing warriors behind him. There was only one thing on his mind, even if his meandering path suggested little direction to his travels, and that was to return to the only thing he knew. The Forge. His forge to be exact, buried within the mountains of his former people in the north. It would take him perhaps two days with his great lumbering strides to reach the land of the Barun, but until then he wished to see how the world had changed. There was nothing he could do to return things to the way they were, so while he wished the world could continue without him and his troublesome siblings, he willed away such fancies and tried to learn. Acclimatizing himself to a world he had not been a part of for centuries would not be an easy task, but like all the Children, he had naught but time.

Some of the Children would likely march against Eyra immediately and seek their revenge, tearing the land asunder in their quest for the witch’s blood. Kozz chose not to be among them, but with his monstrous visage gaining attention everywhere he went he would be unlikely to escape the ensuing battle. Humanity resented the return of the Children, as they should, and it was in their nature to fight change that threatened their lives. He could not fault them for such action, for he would do the same. In just a day of travel Kozz travelled miles upon miles, and saw much. Most of what he saw interested him and pleased him, the ingenuity of humans had not suffered too greatly from his absence. One thing however enflamed the Cyclops, the use of fire and steel in such unholy matrimony as to undo the works of a thousand years. Gunpowder. Rifles. Cannon. His greatest work had been bastardised, militarised, turned against the work that came before it and proven superior, but at what cost?