"There are so many more stories held in a fugitive's fleeing soles than the diaries of a nomadic wayfarer."
~
Michavel's Residential Cottage,
The City of Descandville,
The Kingdom of Hyll-Decanta,
Darkling heart of the Night,
Second Tuesday of the Second month,
Fiftieth Year of the Reign of King Adon Vericus IV
The Under-ground, the whips of dark steam, the Death Chamber, the man of large wings, hooded countenance and a large scythe, his family's final parting glances, the sound of their screams still ringing in his ears: all of these spiralled into his being as Aldric woke up with a start.
He blinked.
Once, twice, it changed nothing. It was just utter darkness that held sovereignty over all that was his sight's conquest.
