To be clear, the Harbingers were spread thinly through the region and it was only Thimryl and Turuher who approached the ruins on foot.
A big hand fell upon Thimryl's shoulder and through Turuher's sembling, he shared impressions of the bird's-eye view of the place. From their new vantage, they could see that while the former buildings were in utter disrepair, there seemed to be courtyard that more or less held its shape.
Flagstones were edged with rebellious greenery long since left to grow. The arches were covered with moss and vines, the stone seeming to have been carved out of some sort of stone that looked like it might be local or might not. Butterflies fluttered through a shaft of sunlight that seemed more stable than the shifting, dappled light through the moving branches of the canopy above.
"It's magical," he reported, though that was hardly a surprise. All elven ruins were magical, even if only carrying the residue of the magic used to craft them. It was the favored tool of the Hytori. Perhaps he could glean more if they were closer or he were given more time, but while Semblance was quite popular among their people, not everyone was capable of achieving mastery.
And, "All right," at Thimryl's decision. He fished something out of one of his pockets, aimed it for that more permanent breach of the canopy, and released it: a magical flare, which flew like a firebird, red and dazzling. He watched it make for the hole in the latticework of branches and nodded once it was out. It would fly high, burn brightly, and hang there until someone saw it and came to support them.
That done, he found a convenient boulder and sat down to wait.
