Olivia found Murgull's wing instead of her arm. “Sorry.” “No good to Murgull, that withered wing. Dried up like Horumn’s teats. Can’t flap. Can’t glide. Can’t fan it to keep cool. Tears like brown leaves in winter-time. Olivia can use it for guiding her down dark places. Can use it to make little tents from, for all the good it does.”

I love Murgull.