The cold shroud of Asketi has been thrown over the lands, as winter in Elanthia has begun. With the War over, things begin to settle into a semblance of normalcy. Taverns are overfilled with travelers and local's, each fighting for elbowroom at the tops of counters, as pints of brew are eagerly devoured and the blood is warmed. Fire casts strange shadows across the walls, disfiguring the shadows of Taelbert's patrons into menacing figures of legend and lore.
Two young apprentices sit huddled in a corner, away from the mild roar of the bar's loudest patrons. Donned in heavy woolen robes in the hues of their respective Master's, they chat quietly while their Mage-Lord's delve into their glasses like ancient tomes at the head of the bar.
"Father says it was most likely some Mage's playing around with the naphtha, you know, just for kicks."
"That must have been a whole lot of naphtha. You saw the corpse yourself...or what was left of it. If I didn't see the ash and char on the ground, I would have said it was torn to shreds by a pack of hungry jackals. All that was left was..."
"Hardly anything. Even the snow was cleared, about the area. It was odd, to say the least. The earth was...scarred."
"Odd? It was horrible! Not even an Leucro," he pauses for a moment, as he bites his lip and takes on a serious look, "I think it was a Leucro at least...but not even an Leucro deserves -that- kind of treatment."
"I'm sure it was nothing. Father said it was most likely just some Mages, drunk and playing around in the Forest. Maybe even an Archmage, who knows...Firulf knows how capable they are of obliterating things such as Inkhornes."
"Well...I dunno. If it wasn't just some Mages playing with naphtha, what else...could it be?"
That is the question that has been on the lips of every hunter in the Forest. Inkhornes and Leucros, being found unmercifully slaughtered in the same way. Decimated, with the earth scarred below it and the snow cleared about the corpses. Whisperings in the dark speak of a man, walking the fields in the late of night, speaking quietly in the arcane tongue -- verses of lore never heard before. Whisperings in the dark speak of a tattered piece of parchment, bearing the lone insignia of a stylized flame done in crushed charcoal, tacked onto the remnants of Arhat's tower. And with each whisper, the words grow louder and more clear.
Something is making a statement -
- And the corpses are beginning to pile up...
(Cross-posted in IC events discussion folder as well.)
