Ulvath, the Dying King's Champion
Ten Thousand Gates > An Impromptu Picnic in a Starlit, Ancient Arena

This is to be a warm rot on good ice, this place. Too far and far again the runes have thrown me, for I was to be in the fine and shining Godlands, seeking aid from Ax Hall and Spear Hall. But here ... faugh! This sand is chill enough, but there is no living bite to the air. The rocks are crumbled, these ancient arms rusted away - this is to be an old place, a dead place, gone to warm rot and forgotten.

I have seated with you, but look about, you strange folk, look about! Where are the grasses to pry their way through this dead sand? Where are the carrion birds and white wolves who picked these old bones clean? Nothing to be seen by star or burning torch, nothing save a dead place!

Aye - and yet my ax twitches, even set aside. What is to be watching us from beyond that giant's doorway of old iron, what ill spirit calls this dead place home? No, I say this is a witching place that the new priests speak against! Or have the runes thrown me yet to the Land Below and you are all but a mockery, a mockery of my quest? Answer me, you strange folk!

[ Posted by Reason on September 29, 2005 ]