68

At the Capital City

Manerkol stands upon the top of his ivory tower, all of Cnamh Briste spread out beneath his feet. Nothing can be heard but the ferocious roar of a wind so cold it could claim limbs in minutes. No citizen can be seen on the streets of the city, everyone having retreated into the relative safety of their homes. They know better than to be out and about when the Lord of All is practicing his sorcery.

The gray twilight that is the city's constant companion has turned into a deep darkness. Black clouds boiling overhead steal what meager illumination the city has. Torches are lit, but they do little to stave off the oppressive gloom.

It is said that evil things stalk the streets of Cnamh Briste at night—a ridiculous rumor. Evil always stalks this city. It is the place evil calls home. And there is nothing anyone can do to change this.

The storm carries with it Manerkol's will, the eldritch words of power spewing forth from his lips with the force of avenging demons. They will reach their destination—the Lord of All knows this. He has foreseen it.

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