Whitestone Creek
Whitestone Creek wasnt known for anything in particular. Located a relaxing day and a half west from Slate Peak and resting against the windy cliffs of the Barren Strait, it was home to several hundred farmers, shepherds and other assorted folk. During winter the flocks would be herded inland, to several hidden valleys within the range, to arrive once more with the coming of spring.
In the winter of 362th year of the Departure of Light, that all changed.
- Tales of the North, Wordsman Alin
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Braithe's breath plumed in the evening chill. Drawing the collar on his worn leather coat up higher, he tried to mitigate the chill that accompanied the fall of snow on his exposed skin. Stepping through shallow drifts of snow Braithe continued his ardorous descent from Slate Peak, his breathing growing more laboured with each step. He paused to rub ice from his face and saw that blood was flowing freely from the wound on his arm.
"The Dark's own luck!", he swore, unslinging his pack to better tighten the crude bandages on his forearm. A howl ripped through the tranquil night and for a moment Braithe's eyes widened in panic. He quickly shouldered his pack and adjusted the hang of the knife at his hip, trying to balance it against the weight of his sword - which he only now remembered he'd dropped in his fall from the rockface.
Sniffing the air, his acute senses picked up a faint trace of woodsmoke. Scanning the land ahead of him, he spied a squat stone cabin near to the frozen river. Forgoing stealth, he dragged his weary legs into a run and tried to distance himself from the terror that stalked him still.
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I cant write for spit - but anyways.
In the winter of 362th year of the Departure of Light, that all changed.
- Tales of the North, Wordsman Alin
-----
Braithe's breath plumed in the evening chill. Drawing the collar on his worn leather coat up higher, he tried to mitigate the chill that accompanied the fall of snow on his exposed skin. Stepping through shallow drifts of snow Braithe continued his ardorous descent from Slate Peak, his breathing growing more laboured with each step. He paused to rub ice from his face and saw that blood was flowing freely from the wound on his arm.
"The Dark's own luck!", he swore, unslinging his pack to better tighten the crude bandages on his forearm. A howl ripped through the tranquil night and for a moment Braithe's eyes widened in panic. He quickly shouldered his pack and adjusted the hang of the knife at his hip, trying to balance it against the weight of his sword - which he only now remembered he'd dropped in his fall from the rockface.
Sniffing the air, his acute senses picked up a faint trace of woodsmoke. Scanning the land ahead of him, he spied a squat stone cabin near to the frozen river. Forgoing stealth, he dragged his weary legs into a run and tried to distance himself from the terror that stalked him still.
-----
I cant write for spit - but anyways.