They are a strange race, the men of Stourveld. They are known for the beauty of their daughters and the uniform plainness of their matrons; a condition thought by some to be the accomplishment of changelings of faerie, not indeed robbing the cradle but the birthing bed. Inward looking, accident prone, they are a people much given to introspection and self murder.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,