COOL WINDS BLEW OVER THE MOOR, soft as a feather and caressing as a Lady's lips. The countryside still gleamed a picturesque dusky yellow in the waning light of Even. Empty cups of ale sat on the blanket under the Oak tree. The men and women engaged in the picnic had long since forgotten to drink anymore wine. Their interest now lay in an entirely different matter.
A matter of great significance to the entire realms of Adramon.
Hemlock had lost his humor at the moment. Somehow, Gryther's words had stirred him out of his usual dandy self. The young man seemed quietened. His hazel eyes were lowered as he contemplated the sorcerer's words.
The Wytcher had given a clear riddle. An enigma, but anyone could tell exactly who he was referring to by his words.
