STONES OF THE HIGHLAND *CLOSED*

Summer Cloaks in an Early Winter (Original Ch1)

The sun rested on the horizon of Ka'bella Lætenu, The Beautiful Glade, the entrance to the Forest Elves' Sanctum. The morning sun shimmered through the gorgeous Autumn palette of the numerous oak trees. It was a remarkably cool morning for late autumn in the northeastern forests of Kronus. The air was cool and chilled, filled with the crisp alluring scent of pine and foliage. Scarce hints of the many different fruits, berry bushes, and evergreens blended themselves with the air as they breathed throughout the area.

Overhead, the Great Geese honked instructions to one another as they started their migratory pattern, dotting the golden-lit treasure trove of the sky heading south to lands unknown. Their gray bodies and outstretched black necks contrasted with the lightness of the early sky. Thin trails of gray smoke slowly crept towards the open ceiling and disappeared after the first couple of furlongs as the cold air smothered the intrusive foe.

The Blades of the Legion - one of the elite groups in The God King's army - were already awake. Most of them lay sprawled out at their squads' ash-ridden campfires enjoying a cold breakfast of porridge and hard cakes. Icy clouds of vapor escaped their chapped lips as they breathed and spoke privately amongst one another. Noses and cheeks were red and raw, many of the Blades were from warmer climates and rubbed their hands together ferociously as if trying to peel the very skin off their bones to maintain warmth. An icy gust billowed travel-worn cloaks and rustled dry leaves as if passing rumors and stories of those resting in the forest's grips. The air pierced The Blades' thin summer cloaks slicing through to the bone as if the soldiers stood exposed, naked to the elements of Mother Shari's spirit. The goddess of once was a beautiful land but was now a scarred wasteland, stripped to the very core from The War of the Immortals.

The soldiers socialized quietly fearing that they may disturb the ancient forest and evoke her wrath. They spun stories about their lives and families, like spiders knitting their webs: small, light, tangible, but strong enough for them to find peace and protection. It was all the recruits felt they could do to keep in touch with their sanity. The stories told about what their families were like, what they would be doing at this moment, and when they would be returning to see their families. For the new recruits though, it wasn't enough, they felt as if the dread they felt would always be there, dancing on their shoulders, taunting them like a mischievous sprite.

One of the warriors sat propped against a moss-ridden log, carving a notch into a dry stick with numerous notches already etched into it. "How many Suns is that now, Dallion?" asked one of the on-looking soldiers nearest to him. The bedraggled soldier then took a swig from his waterskin and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his course-linen tunic.

Dallion finished carving the day-mark and stared at the makeshift calendar, lost in thought. A look of sadness rested on his narrow and sharp features. Dallion's golden bangs framed his features falling to his chin. His slightly pointed ears stuck out from his shoulder-length hair, pink-tipped spires rising from a golden sea. His rounded nose was turning red and from the cold. "We sea-folk aren't made for this kind of weather." He smirked stroking his thin goatee absentmindedly. He was lost in his own world, oblivious to his surroundings.

The soldiers assumed he was thinking about how his enlistment had affected his family life. Dallion was a young half-elf barely into his thirtieth year, fresh from the coasts of Bairn. Before he was forced into The Blades his hometown had become victims to one of the countless raids experienced since the turn of the century. During the raid - just months before his deployment - Dallion had lost his son to a stray arrow. Even with the passing of his son, the half-elf still had to leave his wife and daughter to fend for each other.

"Dallion." the soldier repeated softly. The man reached out his hand and clapped Dallion on the shoulder. His comrade imprinted a reassuring, but forced smile on his face, despite being practically hidden by the man's burly, unkempt beard.