GreyOne
Explorer
Looking back over the seasons, it seems like an age since the four of you fell in together. The troubles in Mourandar and the betrayal by Joffer seem as distant as another life now. But vengeance lives on in your hearts. Especially for you Bragon. Your father suffered greatly under that bastard’s attentions. Joffer came into the west. So did Ghis. Both of them are going to die. If you can find them, that is.
A year almost to the day, you’ve followed. A year of your lives gone, searching endlessly for these two vicious, and deadly men. From Ander Imild, to Memondalas. Across to the Azgrulan Na’Volos and back across the Sundering Sea to Bracelar and then Chanceran. Traces led to the Holy City of Telethur. But once again, the trail died. Ever westwards you’ve searched and pursued.
Here you stand now, hundreds of leagues from where the journey began. The vast grasslands of the Nathla Ghezgrud stretch into the north. To the west, the smoking peaks of the Mouths of Merdolan. To the south, Eastfair and the bogs of Narlann. The trail has ended again. Here in this place. But trouble has just begun.
A quiet crowd gathers around the village’s barrow mounds, bidding farewell to their lord and protector, Orvolan Har. In his small boat he is accompanied by all the things he will need in the Plane of Dreams: food, furs, weapons, precious silver armbands, and more. Preda, his strong Engolthen widow, is easily recognizable by her raven dark hair, pale grey eyes, ivory skin and square jaw. She stands out among her people, as she is the only person holding a torch. An old wise woman, playing the part of the Death Crone of Wamous, recites a few frightening chants, her raspy voice rising and falling as she circles Orvolan's death barge. When she is silent, Preda comes forward to light the kindling upon which the boat rests. Suddenly, the lazy flames burst as if in a frenzy, taking Orvolan Har to the heavens in a billowing cloud of smoke.
" 'Aye, funerals stir the blood. Don't they just?" whispers Nado.
His dusky Hannathri skin seems paler under this steel-grey sky.
A year almost to the day, you’ve followed. A year of your lives gone, searching endlessly for these two vicious, and deadly men. From Ander Imild, to Memondalas. Across to the Azgrulan Na’Volos and back across the Sundering Sea to Bracelar and then Chanceran. Traces led to the Holy City of Telethur. But once again, the trail died. Ever westwards you’ve searched and pursued.
Here you stand now, hundreds of leagues from where the journey began. The vast grasslands of the Nathla Ghezgrud stretch into the north. To the west, the smoking peaks of the Mouths of Merdolan. To the south, Eastfair and the bogs of Narlann. The trail has ended again. Here in this place. But trouble has just begun.
A quiet crowd gathers around the village’s barrow mounds, bidding farewell to their lord and protector, Orvolan Har. In his small boat he is accompanied by all the things he will need in the Plane of Dreams: food, furs, weapons, precious silver armbands, and more. Preda, his strong Engolthen widow, is easily recognizable by her raven dark hair, pale grey eyes, ivory skin and square jaw. She stands out among her people, as she is the only person holding a torch. An old wise woman, playing the part of the Death Crone of Wamous, recites a few frightening chants, her raspy voice rising and falling as she circles Orvolan's death barge. When she is silent, Preda comes forward to light the kindling upon which the boat rests. Suddenly, the lazy flames burst as if in a frenzy, taking Orvolan Har to the heavens in a billowing cloud of smoke.
" 'Aye, funerals stir the blood. Don't they just?" whispers Nado.
His dusky Hannathri skin seems paler under this steel-grey sky.
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