The Storm Mountain
The Storm Mountain rises against the cobalt blue sky, the everlasting clouds around its peak swirling as if caught in a torrential wave of wild wind. The evening sun casts light upon the dark rock…for a while. As the sun slips beneath the dark horizon of the Great Sea, the light fades and vanishes. Darkness is here.
Darkness? Yes. But not all. A pinpoint of light on the peak of the Storm Mountain shines clear against the night. It is not a star. Nor a heavenly sphere.
A hawk swoops far above in the sky, and heads closer to this point of light. If you were that hawk, as he lands upon the windowsill, you would be able to see into the place where the light shines out from like a beacon of welcome.
In a large fireplace, bright orange flames dance, warming the room both with their cheerful aspect and the physical heat which they emanate. Tall bookcases against the walls hold works of composition, the books propped up by carved wooden bookends, emblazoned with pictures of eagles and dragons, of warriors and mighty creatures. A table sits in the middle of the room, stacks of books and parchments piled high, a bright red feather sitting in an inkwell. A lone figure occupies a chair.
He turns. “Endurance and Victory, reader,” he says in a welcoming voice. The hair that falls in waves to below his shoulders is pure white, yet no wrinkles of age adorn his youthful face. His ears are slightly pointed at the tips, signaling that he is of the race of Elves. Penetrating eyes, strikingly blue in colour, peer out from underneath thick white brows, and a smile of salute lifts the corners of his mouth.
“You ask my name?” he queries, extending a hand. “Come, sit down. I have much to tell, if that is your desire.” His eyes flick toward an unoccupied chair near the fire, indicating that you may take a seat.
“My name…is Gwingyth Thunderblade.”
Gwingyth stares at the fire, then glances up. “I have a rule for your entire time in these rooms of the Storm Mountain. Spamming is not helpful here, and if you want to comment, something of worth would be better than trying to sell something.” He smiles. “I heartily doubt that spammers would like arrows shot at them from invisible guards.”
He leans forward, his hand still outstretched. “Come with me, and I will tell you tales. Tales of legends. Tales of heroes. Tales of sacrifice and courage and daring. Tales that no one else can ever tell.”
The choice is left for you.
Will you come?
Darkness? Yes. But not all. A pinpoint of light on the peak of the Storm Mountain shines clear against the night. It is not a star. Nor a heavenly sphere.
A hawk swoops far above in the sky, and heads closer to this point of light. If you were that hawk, as he lands upon the windowsill, you would be able to see into the place where the light shines out from like a beacon of welcome.
In a large fireplace, bright orange flames dance, warming the room both with their cheerful aspect and the physical heat which they emanate. Tall bookcases against the walls hold works of composition, the books propped up by carved wooden bookends, emblazoned with pictures of eagles and dragons, of warriors and mighty creatures. A table sits in the middle of the room, stacks of books and parchments piled high, a bright red feather sitting in an inkwell. A lone figure occupies a chair.
He turns. “Endurance and Victory, reader,” he says in a welcoming voice. The hair that falls in waves to below his shoulders is pure white, yet no wrinkles of age adorn his youthful face. His ears are slightly pointed at the tips, signaling that he is of the race of Elves. Penetrating eyes, strikingly blue in colour, peer out from underneath thick white brows, and a smile of salute lifts the corners of his mouth.
“You ask my name?” he queries, extending a hand. “Come, sit down. I have much to tell, if that is your desire.” His eyes flick toward an unoccupied chair near the fire, indicating that you may take a seat.
“My name…is Gwingyth Thunderblade.”
Gwingyth stares at the fire, then glances up. “I have a rule for your entire time in these rooms of the Storm Mountain. Spamming is not helpful here, and if you want to comment, something of worth would be better than trying to sell something.” He smiles. “I heartily doubt that spammers would like arrows shot at them from invisible guards.”
He leans forward, his hand still outstretched. “Come with me, and I will tell you tales. Tales of legends. Tales of heroes. Tales of sacrifice and courage and daring. Tales that no one else can ever tell.”
The choice is left for you.
Will you come?