BY THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT, a lone Grace ascended the high tower of the Temple. The dancing fireworks overhead marked his steps as he climbed further up the steeple. He cleared into a narrow chamber without windows or doors, wide and open with only a single sloping roof as a cover. In the empty space was an iron bell, larger than the size of the Grace himself and twice his height.
The bald monk clutched his yellow robes about himself as he held from from the whipping wind. The breeze was cold, and in the summerlands, it stood of note.
The Southern realms rarely had rain the entire summer year. However, the last moon of the season was the coldest, with dire winds blowing in from the Carrean sea. Many a wise sailor holding vessel and ship Captains of the Syverian fleet knew not to traverse the treacherous waters at such time.
The sea mother, Carrea was primed at such time to lure the landfolk to their deaths with the melodious calls of her sirens.
