Chandaea, Year of Severus, 15, I.R., the 69th day of Fall, Arenfall
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The late hour of Obscura was at hand. There were only a few hours left before dawn peeks at the horizon. As the rest of the camp slowly settled in for a night's rest, Lord Prestonheim's tent was still burning his midnight oil. From the outside, his silhouette could be seen moving on and about, pausing at his huge table pointing at it or throwing rolls of parchment to the ground. The old Commander had a lot on his plate and even in his silhouette, it was obvious how his shoulders slumped from the heavy burden he has and yet, he kept on going.
