Hervé
A little something to share:
North of the Cholanti the hills rise wild, and ancient forests stand inviolate in isolation; nest and shelter to brutal powers older than time.
The Uz call it Dagori Inkarth. It is a deadly land, beyond comprehension, filled with secret trails known only to the Wind and the unseeing eye of Darkness. Darkspore and whipvine fester there, no tula stone claims boundary with the wilderness, no herd or crop contends against the tyranny of branch and rock and water. Shadows fester that are servant to neither sun nor chaos moon, and the air itself whispers chill and turgid, battered by the unceasing torrent of the Sky Vent.
The Lady walks there, and the Old Bear, that one, but of the human tribe only the odaylans dare its sunless weald, and they seldom, in solitary secrecy and fear.
Braggi flat refused to lead the Lunars north, even after threats against his kin. He had earned his honour name in that shadow-haunted wild, and mead and poets' praise in plenty, but even he refused to walk there after the season of harvest and falling leaf.
The Lunars, wrapped in silver and false confidence, headed north without a guide. A mere file, some twenty spears, and only six on horseback. Four weeks they said, to journey to the lake beneath Skyfall and to return. Four weeks.
Three seasons on, and neither word nor vision. Like so many before them, they have been swallowed by the wild.
And white-faced, Braggi returns from the Ring. By flickering flame, soft-spoke and fearful, he whispers that we must go and find them.
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