The Rivers of Life flow through the Sarangrave. Spring magic in the clouds, in the streams, the ponds, in the water-bottles of the soldiers. In the Feverwater, in unplumbed depths of the lake of Kroll. They bring with them the promise of life, of wounds that will swiftly heal. They bring a threat as well - the blood-sucking, stinging insects of the Druj-corrupted wetlands swarm and bite in unprecedented numbers. There is a balance of a kind, though, to this indiscriminate magic. Wounds are less likely to fester in the filthy marshes, at least. Sickness less likely to spread. The rains of life fall on the just and the corrupt, equally.
