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He wanders the hallways and corridors each night, in futile pursuit of the one thing that will allow
him to sleep.  The sounds that greet him at every turn and junction are wrong, the humming
rhythms unfamiliar; the wafting scents too alien, the light the wrong intensity; the knowledge that
everyone else is asleep behind the doors of their chambers an intolerable annoyance, not the
reassuring balm for his soul that he had expected.  

Rygel guides his throne sled into another echoing length of palace hallway that he is convinced was
designed to magnify his loneliness, and longs for Moya.    


                                                        
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