Through the dark and snow of the great Fyrwyrr Mountains, the path before him lit only by the spells of his mages, the last king of Midiam was being hunted.
It was a wretched night; The snow and dastard winds had not show even the slightest sign of stopping. Comfort was the very least of his concerns.
Behind him, one by one, his royal guards fell to an unseen enemy. At first, the king could only hear their screams from afar. Then he could hear the sound of bolts piercing steel armor. Slowly, one by one, the guards fell, their armor rattling against the hard, icy floor.
The king pressed on. Were he to stay and fight, he would surely lose. The only chance for survival was to keep moving.
Then an arrow pierced into his crown.
Had it not been for a single, lone emerald on the back of his sacred head ware, he would have surely perished.
"Ready swords! Counter attack! Protect the royal court!" Yelled the captain of his entourage. A suicidal command.
Yet his men obeyed.
The king and his mages could only watch on as his men readied their rusted and battered weapons and faced the foe shrouded in the shadows.
"For the king!" Boomed the last, mighty war cry of his men as they charged into the darkness.
The bolts ceased. The sound of battle swallowed by the wind.
Their chance. They ran down the path in the darkness of the night, guided only by the abandoned structures along the road of the once great town.
Soon enough, there was a light in the distance. A glimmer of hope. They ran as fast as their feet could carry them on the frozen stone, up what felt like a stair of thousands of steps until they reached some makeshift fortifications before a great stone door. The guards stationed outside promptly let them in.
They were welcomed into the loving warmth of Iehenholm Keep with open arms.
And like that, the nightmare was over. Refuge from the Dammervolk within the ancient halls of one of the last fortresses still standing.
One of the guards motioned the king to the entryway towards great hall.
The meeting had begun.
