Down in the northern grasslands…
The room felt suffocating, the scent of old parchment and ink hanging thick in the air. Farin sat hunched over a desk cluttered with haphazardly stacked books, their spines cracked and pages brittle with age. He scowled, silver hair falling into his eyes as he combed through one text after another, frustration building in his chest. He flicked through the dusty pages, filled with nothing but useless curses—each one more ridiculous than the last.
Around him, books were piled in haphazard stacks, their spines cracked and pages yellowed with age. Dust motes danced in the flickering light of a single candle set atop a cluttered desk. His face was filled with concentration, furrowed brows and narrowed eyes as he leafed through pages filled with arcane scripts and illustrations.
