Prologue

The Year of Our Emperor Maximilian

3:5240:Day 23

5 bulos to port Aldaeron

Standing over the cliff overlooking the vast expanse of the Atrax desert, the man took a deep breath.. Pondering over what he and the last of his remaining band of rebels and misfits had seen over the last week.. Parched throats and weary bodies were more of a welcome relief now.. With what had been chasing them since the Forests of Muino, the howls and screams were etched in his mind.. Piercing at his conscience with each passing moment.. Not the finest chain mail nor the swords from the skilled blacksmiths of Brathenwark could have saved the poor souls from what had befallen the now ragged remains of the 67th legion.. Magus Andarion joined the man now and looked across at the distant snow capped peaks of Armen, beyond which lay Ravenshold, the lost city now believed to be haunted by the Arcane and the unknown"Seems we should have asked for more for all this... Trouble.. Don't ya think? Wonder what's to come in Aldaeron.. We are still many bulos away from Elkaar.. That bastard better be ready.. All em rumours regarding his legion.." The raven haired man barely batted an eye lid, ignoring the words spoken by the Mage. Instead, he focused on a small speck in the sky.. Slowly growing larger as it approached the pair of men, an odd contrasts of sorts.. the sinewy frame of the man was complimented by a blood stained armour of Moinlesten steel and a large oak shield on which his fingernails seemed to play a slow rhythmic beat... As the speck grew larger, the kestrel landed on the man's left shoulder with a small roll tied to its feet.. The man now turned his attention to the roll as he reached it for one handed, without missing a beat in the oak shield.. Unfurling the scroll, he betrayed no emotion and with an almost inaudible grunt, he stroked the kestrel and folded the paper away into the folds of his woollen shirt, tucked snugly beneath the heavy chain linked armour which were stained in purple.. Andarion gazed at him, hoping to elucidate a response from his companion.. None came... Time passed and with the skies turning a heliotrope hue, the man finally looked down to see the lamps burning bright in the sleepy seaport below as the inhabitants slowly began their preparations for the festival of La'Niestro Crila.. With one hand on his infamous scimitar, the man finally lifted the oak shield with the other onto his back and turned to Andarion.. "Grim tidings. No more 68th to support us on our voyage. This town may not see another Crila, Andarion. Best we move swiftly and without attracting their attention." Andarion wasn't surprised by the man's decision. "As you wish, Lord Vorin. Isn't there a way to warn the denizens?".. Elkaar turned slowly to unsheathe his scimitar, radiant and glowing with an opal hue feeding of the magic stone in its pommel.. "Evil comes for this land, Andarion.. Fate weaves it's own thread for each of us.. For the people below, it seems the conjecture is with an untimely Death.. One whose avoidance isn't as vital as the Emperors orders." As he turned to walk away with his back to the panorama behind him, Andarion shivered inspite of the blazing heat of the desert.. It was no wonder that few men didn't pee themselves when they met the Scourge of Ashda, Lord Elkaar Vorin.