The Kingdom of Byrdlon was gripped in winter’s icy fist. Snow covering the ground was blown into a flurry by an icy wind. Those few souls who were forced to brave its fury were hardly recognizable as people. Bundled up as they were with layers of clothing and coated by the new fallen snow swept off the ground by the wind, they looked more like ghosts in their passing.

Above, the sun tried in vain to break through the snow blown haziness. All that was visible, should one have bothered to look up, was a disc of dim brightness. Cold. Only the foolish or desperate would brave such conditions. Most sensible people remained indoors with fires burning brightly.

One individual was unable to remain inside. A promise given was a promise kept. Though, if he had known today was going to be like it was, he never would have agreed to the meeting he was heading toward.

Wrapped in layers of clothing, the man leaned against the blowing wind as he passed through the empty streets of Gilbeth. The lower half of his sword’s scabbard poked out from beneath the bottoms of two jackets, one of which had been borrowed from a friend.

Not much further, he thought to himself. On either side of him, the lights coming from windows promised warmth that he direly wished he could partake. Instead, he continued putting one foot in front of the other and pressed ever onward. When he came to the next intersection, he was struck by a gust of wind blowing from out of the side street and was almost knocked over. Gritting his teeth, he turned into the full force of the wind and made his way along the side street.

Behind him, the footprints he left in the snow covering the street were quickly filled or removed by the wind. Not much further, he said to himself yet again. And it wasn’t. Squinting his eyes against the blowing snow, he looked ahead and saw the townhouse that was his destination.