Too late, the words echo in his head. It seems to be his lot to always be too late to. Too late to see that his father never had any intention of sending the ships back for their uncles and cousins, too late to stop that same father from running headlong to his own death... too late to save Fingon. And now, apparently, too late to stop whatever it is that's happened here.

He does not shake off Barcus's hand as he stares out at the massacered sheep with a haunted look upon his face, but the amount of blame he's currently heaping upon himself does not allow him to take much comfort from the gesture either. For he truly should have known better. How could he not? When he's seen in his own world what darkness such as they'd felt in that well could do?

No teeth or clawmark on any of the sheep it seemed. Torn apart and bludgeoned to death they might have been but it was man made tools that had caused the injuries. "No wolf or beast have touched any of them, I think. Someone's been at this one with a pitchfork if the marks on it is anything to go by..."

He does not know if Barcus has figured out what the implications of these wounds mean yet... but to him this is no longer a mystery. The farmers did this themselves. Whatever had made it's home in that well had gotten out and sunk it's shadowy tendrils into the people here and made them go mad. Like the thralls Morgoth used to release from Angband back in his own world.

"The farmers did this," he says simply. "There's no sign of any outside force coming in here... they did this themselves."