Amonalda walked the narrow forest path aimlessly, gently brushing the leaves of the plants he passed and as if in response to this contact they swayed and curled in the still air. Where he tread no blade of grass was broken, nor flower crushed. Stopping on his journey, he gazed quizzically at the obstruction. A large root crept across the footpath and from it sprouted great purple thorns, some reaching the length of his arm. Ereg-Dur, commonly known as shadowthorn. Amonalda smiled as a parent smiles the antics of their child, and placed his hand on the root. "Ereg-Dur was always a willful one," thought Amonalda, "but they always listen." Animated by the Warden's magic the growth retreated, curling on itself along side the walkway. Thinking back on his early days, he could remember when these footpaths were still great passages. But that was a time long passed; a time when the Wardens were plenty and forests were abound. These sombre recollections aroused feelings of loneliness in Amonalda. He continued his stroll, pacing along the path now with a destination in mind: The Gate.