The wind whipped and whistled through the craggy peaks of the northern mountains. It picked up flakes of snow and ice, and as it whirled along the dusty path, it cut like icy needles. The shrouded figure, from where he was perched high upon the twisted monolith, pulled his gray cloak across his face, so that just the slits of his eyes were visible, peering attentively across the tundra wastes. Though it was not actually snowing, the wind that was sweeping the snow off the ground made it near impossible to see. The figure recalled what had happened the last few weeks of his journey.
He had passed through the Guilnor metropolis of West Guile a week earlier. All had been well there. Peace had reigned in the Western Kingdom for the past five years since the Overseer's corrupt grip on the town of Nerforr had been disrupted by the efforts of power hungry thieves, mad cultists, and the Crown Army. The shard of Dralon's Eye that had been owned by the mad overseer had been captured by Dralonite priests, who had tried to escape with it to their secret temple at Kyre's Rock. They however were intercepted by a ship of Angorian Paladin's, who scuttled the Dralonite ship and captured the artifact.
A day after he had gone through West Guile, the figure had stopped at Idor. The town had been burned to the ground years earlier in a massive struggle between the two Barbarian Elf Clans Hiandji and Arthiam. Upon the charred earth the survivors had planted new seeds, and began to rebuild the elven town upon the blood tinged soil. While the elves had been reduced to an even more primitive state, they have forgotten their differences, and now work in harmony with each other and the land to reshape their civilization.
Several days after Idor, the figure had drifted through Keldrig, the monastery. It was there that he had locked himself within the great library for days on end, pouring through manuscripts and tomes, searching madly for what he had been looking for. When he had found it, he left as silently as he had entered the city, the Angorian priests paying no heed to him.
It was that book that he now held close to his side, wrapped within his tattered gray robe. For that book had been his guide, and with it's aid he sought to watch what may very well be the breaking of the peace within Guilnor, and possibly even all of Neminekor.
As the wind died, the view ahead of him slowly became more distinct. He could see miles of barren tundra, the Damned Lands, once battle field of the mighty Ogres and Shamir, now just the frozen graves of millions. Way off in the distance were the ruined spires of the Shamir Citadel, barely teeth jutting into the distant skyline. But it was the billowing pillar of smoke in the distance that caught his eye the most. That was the trouble...
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