The White City sat divided, island by island, in the Bay of Un. The isles of Leve and Ros were side by side, West and East, seperated by a sea water trench only a few hundred metres across. Tens of thousands lived on these islands alone. Their rocky faces were covered by sprawling city-scape- grand pillars and hard, severe edges were popular themes among the buildings.
Northward of the two main city-isles was the island where the Temple sat. The entire perimeter of the island was lined by mammoth, white marble pillars of ancient origin. Here, between the marble pillars, was the Fountain from which all pure magic of the Frigid Isles flowed.
Between the city-isles of Leve and Ros and the Temple was the Rock of the Wind. Smaller than the island which hosted the Temple, and even more barren, the Rock of the Wind lay low against the waters. A massive split ran like a dark scar in its belly. The origin of the fissure was as ancient as the marble pillars of the Temple. Or so the old fishermen would say, and the priestly orders would insinuate in hushed whispers.
The Frigid Isles, as the collection of islands were known, were like a fractured pupil in the eye of the enclosed sea. The purple mountain range to the North, known as the Edge of the Sky, loomed like a heavy eyelid. To the South, the Bay of Un pinched off until finally opening up into the sea; And to the West were the Great Salt Plains.
The Frigid Isles were, no doubt, a cold paradise, safe from any threat of incursion; Walls of mountains, water and space deterred any enemy the world could conjure, not to mention the bone-gripping cold and bare ground could outlast any beseigers, any roving host.
Or so many believed.
A man stepped off a small boat and onto the cobble-stone harbour walkway. He paid with a slice of solid gold, but told the captain to keep it quiet with a finger to his lips and a wink, and not a word more.
His belongings were bundled up in a leather bag on his back. His stringy black hair hung limp on his forehead and down to his cheeks, made brittle by the briney wind. The staff in his hand was an old and weathered beam of ash, but was smooth to his touch.
He made his way up winding roads, by beautiful gardens and through busy markets. As he passed through different sections of Ros, he saw run down brick hostels and elegant granite manses alike. After a few long hours of walking, he came to the base of the sloping hill that would lead him to where he was headed.
Looking up at the palace above, his memory swam in images from the past- from his past. The palace was made of slate-gray granite and marble pillars. It dominated the communities it overlooked like a sleeping giant, sitting cross-legged, atop the hill.
"No entry to the palace unless by escort." A commanding voice called from a little further up the road. He looked up and saw two guards, fully dressed in ceremonial armour, standing at ease, pole-axes in hand.
He continued walking.
"No entry, beggar."
"Get lost. Or we'll make you get lost."
They stepped into his path to block him from going any further. Their brass armour shone and their mail shimmered in the afternoon sun.
"Must not be from here. They usually know better" The one said to the other, without turning his gaze from the dishevelled man before them.
The weathered drifter then stopped and looked into the guards eyes who had first spoken. The guard tried to speak again, but his tongue seemed to be caught in his mouth. A second later, he looked confused, as if he had forgotten what he was trying to say, perhaps wondering if he was going to say anything at all.
