“My first thought was, he lied in every word,
That hoary cripple, with malicious eye…”
– Robert Browning
We’d been riding all day, lost among these ancient trees; this forest where sun and moon no longer cast their light, and a gloom-born mist settled on the company like an unbidden curse.
We came to a fork in the leaf-strewn path where a choice had to be made.
Orrin Ironfist spoke first: “A wretched thing this is…”
“Aye,” Grimner Longknife moaned.
I’d been eyeing some movement in that thick fog just ahead of us, a figure seemed to be standing there like the knotted gnarl of a tree; else it was an illusion, a momentary madness of my mind. It moved again, and I saw a cloaked figure emerge from that blanketed cloudy haze. He held a walking staff of ash, and moved cautiously toward us. Continue reading