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Just as with all others who live in the shade of the trees, sometimes even the Tussir go rotten. The difference seems small enough to manlings, for whom both are underfoot, though one will gripe while the other goes unseen. The Helvettir have had it with Her of the moonlight and the sweet songs of the earth, and with forever taking flight. They seek out the dank hollows and the dark, damp glens where none are like to come looking, and if they should be disturbed, the stories all warn of what mischief they will do, with tooth and claw and cruel, jagged iron.