Although considered an outlying village of Grey Home, Misting Hill, the outlying village of Drogan's youth, was actually an equal distance between Grey Home and Seaport to the south. As it rained often in Grey Home, there was often light rain, or a mist, that fell on the outlying village and the surrounding countryside. There was its share of sunny days, and even heavy thunderstorms that fell upon the little town, but the mist appeared to be its norm. As he rode within sight of the village, Drogan thought of his former home and home to be. Memories of friends, memories of his father, memories of working in the heat of his father's forge, all played through his mind. A light, cold, rain fell as he rode toward the village in the distance, but Drogan was not bothered by it. He'd ridden, walked, marched, slept and fought in worse weather than this. He felt as though he were taking a big turn in the road of his life, leaving his life as a soldier and returning to his roots. He only hoped his father's forge still stood, that their home still stood. He both looked forward to reestablishing old friendships, and dreaded them as well. What would the people of Misting Hill think of him now? Would they welcome him back with open arms, or would they be wary of him. The people of Erinor loved and respected their soldiers. However, Drogan also knew they could be wary of those who left the army. Sometimes a soldier did not reintegrate well into civilian life, and he hoped he would not be one of those. He then thought of Andorin— there was one soldier who definitely would not reintegrate well. Drogan had always kept a level head. He fought not for the love of battle; he fought because it was often necessary. It was a matter of duty in his eyes. Of course he joined for the glory of battle, to be a great respected warrior of Erinor, but that mindset he outgrew quickly. He learned in his first battle there was nothing glorious when killing and seeing your fellow soldiers killed. His boyhood dreams became nightmares. He remembered little of his first battle now. He only remembered it as a blur. He fought. He killed. He stumbled and slipped amongst the dead, and became ill more than once. He was pulled out of the fight when he took a nasty wound to his thigh and spent the remainder of his first campaign on his back, and with fever when the wound became infected. He remembered the field surgeons worrying they might have to remove his leg. That was when he befriended Faldrek, who happened by to visit and pray for him. He had believed the stories of Jandrous then, but over the years his belief slowly faded. He had seen too much suffering. He had seen too many die despite prayer. But he respected Faldrek's beliefs and respected him for his leadership and genuine care for his fellow soldiers. The older warrior often prayed aloud or quoted The Teachings as he fought. There was a man Drogan sometimes thought was meant to be a priest, not a soldier. But as Faldrek would sometimes say, "Sometimes it seems we choose our own paths to tread, but perhaps our paths are chosen for us. I feel this path is the one I've been led to. So I follow it." He was going to miss Faldrek, he knew. He was a good friend, and he hoped he would be able to visit him from time to time. As he began to ride the gentle slope of the hill where the village rested above, he could see some of the inhabitants working the fields, some stopping to watch as he rode into view. In the village above were the wood and stone built cottages and buildings, with straw thatched roofs, where the people worked and lived. There was an inn and tavern on the edge of the town where people would gather to eat and drink and talk about the day, and where travelers passing through would rest for the night. With evening fast approaching, Drogan was planning on resting there as well, and would see about his father's house and forge the next day. As he rode into the village and to a stable outside the inn, The White Swan, there were some villagers walking about who recognized him and smiled or stopped him to greet him, which helped to ease the tension he felt from returning home. It was not just returning home— he was leaving one life behind him and starting another life anew, both very different. And he was returning without his father to welcome him home. He dismounted the big black charger and led it into the stable where he gave a young boy a couple of coins as payment. He then entered The White Swan, where he was greeted with laughter, yelling, and all the typical sounds of a tavern inn— and then silence as one by one everyone stopped to stare. "Well this is a bit uncomfortable," he thought to himself as he looked about the room. Slowly men, some he recognized and a few he did not, sitting at tables or at the counter, returned to their food, drink, and conversations. There was old and grey farmer Middens looking dour as ever, and fat farmer Fenrick, who's belly hung over his belt. Big curly haired Halin, a hunter and skinner by trade and a mountain of a man, sat near the fire at the far wall, scratching his black beard. There were so many familiar faces, although a bit older, and new ones as well. Behind the counter, wiping a mug with a towel was Rodrick, the owner of The White Swan and, Drogan remembered, his father's closest friend. Rodrick was a tall, thin, kindly looking man who kept his balding grey hair cut short. He wore a white apron over a brown shirt, and when Drogan stepped toward the counter, the older man stepped out from behind it with a smile to embrace him, patting him hard on the back.
"Drogan!" he said. "It is good to see you. What brings you home to Misting Hill, and how long will you be staying?" Drogan felt more at ease after receiving the warm welcome from the kindly Rodrick, and returned the embrace, clapping the older man on the back as well.
"I'm here to stay, Rodrick," he replied.
"You've left the army?"
"I thought it was due time I returned home to carry on my father's wishes. If the forge still stands." Drogan looked questioningly at the innkeeper who smiled.
"That is wonderful news, Drogan," the tall man said. "Here— sit, sit. Take some weight off of your feet," he motioned to a seat at the counter and then asked a passing tavern maid to bring some food and ale for him before continuing. "Yes, Drogan. Your father's house and forge still stand. I have tried, as well as big Halin to keep them in good order, fixing a door here, or some thatching on the roof there, but we've had little time between the both of us lately. The thatching by now is going to need some real work, at least on the house. But we were sure to make time for the forge itself. All of your fathers tools are still there, and the thatching is in good order as well. Halin has seen to keeping the tools well oiled, so they would not rust." Halin had walked up to them both and placed a big hand on Drogan's shoulder.
"Thank you," Drogan said. "Thank you both," he continued, acknowledging the big man who joined them.
"It was the least we could do for your father, Drogan." Halin said in his deep voice. "We knew someday you'd return, and now you have. I'll be happy to help with any repairs you need to make as you move in."
"Until then," Rodrick continued where the big man left off. "You have a room here upstairs as long as you need it." He softened his voice to a whisper while looking around. "Free of charge. But don't you go telling anyone."
"I won't," Drogan laughed. "And again, thank you very much." The tavern maid returned with a plate and mug and set them down in front of Drogan, and the brown haired woman stood looking at him expectantly. She was a good looking woman, not tall, but not too short either, curvaceous, with green eyes. Drogan was stunned. "Uh— excuse me," he said and then reached into a pouch on his belt to produce a few coins.
"I don't want your money, Drogan," She said and abruptly turned and walked away and into the kitchens.
"My daughter, Drogan," Rodrick explained with a smile. "Annyaa." Drogan's jaw dropped, surprise and unbelief on his features. Last time he had laid eyes on Rodrick's daughter she was a short, too skinny, bony kneed young girl with a face full of freckles and messy hair. Now, even wearing a dirty tavern maid's apron, her hair messed up from a day of work, and apparently mostly without freckles, she had grown into a beautiful woman.
"That—? " he questioned. "She was Annyaa?" Seeing Rodrick's raised brow, he attempted to recompose himself before continuing. "Forgive me, Rodrick. I didn't recognize her. Uh— she's grown up quite well indeed!" He exclaimed with a smile. Rodrick raised his brow even higher, and Drogan turned his attention to the food and drink in front of him, his ears burning and face flushed in embarrassment. "This gravy is wonderful!" he said through a mouthful of food. Rodrick winked at Halin over Drogan's back, and the big, bearded hunter roared out in laughter.
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Night had fallen, the blizzard had worsened, and Kendrick rode on in silence. He had no idea if he continued in the right direction anymore. He was blind in this weather, and unimaginably cold. The grey horse labored beneath him and all Kendrick could do anymore was sit and ride, slumped over in the saddle against the horse's neck. He could not feel his hands or his feet, from numbness. He could not think clearly anymore, his mind as numb as his tired, shivering body. He wanted to sleep. He was freezing to death, he knew. And the horse, he thought, would be soon to follow, as it trudged through the deepening snow. The wind screamed like a thousand angry ghosts. And they taunted him— beckoning him to sleep so they could take his soul. "You can't have me!" He screamed. "You hear me? You cannot have me!" He was becoming delirious. "My king will lead me through the many storms— He will lead me through the darkest nights and into peaceful lands where the sun shines eternal and warm," he quoted The Teachings. He looked out at whiteness all around him, swirling around him, and he slowly raised a fist at it. He gritted his teeth in anger at this enemy— this great white beast that was everywhere, but could not be touched. "You cannot have me!" He screamed again. The horse stumbled, losing its footing, and went down, Kendrick tumbled into the snow. He crawled on hands and knees to the horse where it lay. "No!" He cried out. "You can't do this! Not now!" He tried to get the horse to rise, but could not. The grey animal lay on its side, great puffs of steam rising from its nose and mouth. "We have to move— or we will surely die." He lay a hand on the horse's neck. "Please, Jandrous— not like this." He had to get the horse back on its feet so he pulled at it's bridle, forcing its neck up, and trying to force the horse to follow through to regain its feet. "Get up!" he screamed. "Get up!" He pulled and pulled, exhausting his energy, he knew, but he had to try. Finally, slowly, the horse rose up onto its forelegs and pushed its hind legs up behind it until it was again standing. "Good. Good. Yes. I will walk awhile— let you regain some strength." And so he started walking again, leading the horse behind him. He stumbled on, knowing that he and the animal were likely to die, but that he had to keep moving, holding on to some hope that shelter would be found. He had a mission to uphold, a mission given him not only by Donnagan, but perhaps by the One God Himself. He thought for an instant he could see lights ahead through the snow, but they quickly vanished. "Oh let it be so," he thought. He peered through the storm as he stumbled on, trying to catch another glimpse. Perhaps it was his mind playing tricks on him, he thought. He continued in the direction he saw the lights— there! Yes, he thought. He could see what appeared to be lights leaking through shuttered windows. He tried to quicken his pace but at that moment the horse fell again. "No!" he rushed to the horse's side. "Look you dumb animal! Shelter is just ahead!" He tried again to get the horse to rise but could not. It lay there looking at him with one eye as if to say it was sorry but could go no further. He looked in the direction of the lights and yelled out as loud as he could, "Help! There's someone out here! Hello!" He yelled. "Help!" He continued. Trying once more to help the horse regain its footing, he fell exhausted to his knees, but was unable to stand again himself. "Help!" He cried out again before falling back against the horse. He was too exhausted to move anymore and just lay there. He thought he heard the sound of hooves on wood for a moment, but then nothing. He slowly turned his head in the direction of the lights again, and thought he could see fires floating in the distance, bobbing up and down. Two, no— three— three floating fires were bobbing up and down, and moving toward him through the swirling snow and ice. "Strange fires," he said aloud. "Are they Drayan coming to usher me to the heavens?" he thought. And then his eyes closed as he lost consciousness and the white turned to black, and the dancing flames disappeared.
"He lives." he thought he heard a man say. "Quickly, help me get him on my horse."
"The horse yet lives as well." This one a woman. "Perhaps we can save it."
"It's not moving, that's certain. You'll have to ride back to town to find something to use as a litter. But you'll have to be quick about it."
"I'm sure we can find something." Another man.
Kendrick felt himself being lifted up and slung on his belly over a horse. He was too tired to open his eyes. He lost consciousness again just as he felt the horse begin to move.
"Quickly now! Cover him well, get him warm." He heard the first man's voice again, as he felt himself laid in a bed and his boots removed. "Frostbite?"
"He's lucky," he heard the woman again. "Thank the One God. What is a priest doing out in this weather?"
"Who knows? From Danir most likely. There are no other villages on the road between here and there. I guess he got caught out in the open. This storm was sudden. Let's get that fire stoked. I want to get some hot broth in him."
"I agree. Should one of us get the priest?"
"No point in waking him. I think our young friend here will be all right. He has you caring for him after all." Kendrick heard the door open and close. and then the second man's voice again.
"The horse is in the stable. I think it will be ok. How is he?"
"He's young," he heard the first man reply. "I think he'll make it all right."
Kendrick fell into sleep again until suddenly coming awake with a start; coughing and choking.
"Easy now," the woman said. She sat on a stool next to the bed holding a wooden bowl and a spoon. "What is your name?" She was older than he, probably in her thirtieth year or so, a handsome woman with reddish brown hair and blue eyes. "What is your name?"
"Kendrick," he answered. "I should thank you."
"You're welcome," she said with a smile, and spooned more broth into his mouth. "You're lucky Broan heard your call for help over that wind." She continued, "My name is Kieran. I guess you could say I'm a caregiver in this village. When I'm here that is. Normally I'm traveling up and down the river and back on Broan's boat. He's a merchant, and pays me well to cook and clean for his men and care for the sick or injured."
"I would like to thank him and the other man as well," he said after swallowing the warm broth.
"I'm sure you'll be able to do that later," she replied and continued. "As for now, however, you should focus on drinking this broth, and getting some rest. How you and that horse didn't freeze to death is a miracle."
"I think you're right," Kendrick said with a smile.
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Jarren stood on one of the bridges looking out at the E'eldradin village. Night had fallen and torches blazed outside of homes and buildings below, as well as amongst the homes and buildings built up and among the trees. Placed evenly along the bridges were more torches to light the way for those walking to and from one place to another. He looked up through the canopy at the stars visible here and there and the moon shining brightly above. He thought of Grea'oran's belief they were entering the Long Winter, and of the Great Hunting of those loyal to Jandrous. A war would be coming like the world had never seen before. He had seen war, he had fought with the elves and dwarves in many battles against evil elves from the Blackwood who had traveled the sea and entered into the Forever Lands to the south with the help of the bull headed Taurian's from the Kylerian Island off the southern coast. The Blackwood elves themselves were a strong, dangerous opponent, but a large and enraged Taurian, with its massive pointed horns was a beast of a warrior that could lay waste to many enemies on its own. The Taurians were a divided race. Some were loyal to Jandrous, yet other clans despised those loyal to the One True King. The smaller number of Blackwood elves, and the fighting amongst the Taurian clans was a deciding factor in the E'eldradin being able to turn them back time and time again. If the Taurians ever united either for or against Jandrous, they would be a force to be reckoned with against any enemy. He had also fought in the east, acting as a scout for Duke Nordhelm's armies against the Haira' hem in the Barren Wastes. He had also fought for the northeastern Haira'hem tribes against the same tribes that regularly threatened Grey Home. He was also known amongst the E'eldroan of the Griffinwood as well as the E'eldhiavan of the Mistwood. He had traveled many places, hence the name 'Traveler' along with 'Hunter' as some called him. He was no stranger to fighting when the need arose. He despised it— but knew it as an often necessary act, and was willing to help whenever and where ever he could if the cause was just. He breathed in the cold night air, and exhaled sharply. There was always a measure of anxiety when you knew you were going into battle, but this— this was something far more. What was coming, he was sure, would be terrible beyond words. He had already seen firsthand a small piece of what was to come— the possessed, priestly betrayer that had attacked Marek and himself on the plains. What would they face in the coming days, months, or even years? How many of those he loved would die? He heard footsteps on the bridge moving toward him and Tia'ialla's voice when she drew near.
"You look troubled, friend," she said as she stood beside him looking down below. "You normally hide that quite well."
"I was thinking, Tia." He glanced at her with a small, reassuring smile. "I was thinking of what Grea'oran said earlier— The Long Winter, The Great Hunting. A terrible war will be coming. I cannot say I'm not worried."
"As am I, Jarren," she said. "Do you think those loyal to Jandrous will be victorious?" Jarren shook his head, unsure of the answer.
"I cannot say," he said. "I would hope so."
"The prophecies are not very clear in that matter," Grea'oran said as he and Marek walked across the bridge to join them. "I know Jandrous comes as a mortal, as he did before. Meaning, he can be killed."
"And," Marek continued for him. "He will not know he is Jandrous, the One True King, until he holds the sword that slew him in his very own hand. Meaning the people of the mortal world loyal to him will not have someone to rally behind until then."
"I fear," the E'eld prince said with a shake of his head, "dark times are coming. This could be a very long, terrible time in our history. Those of us loyal to Jandrous will be hunted down like dogs. Even more so, the priests." He motioned toward Marek with his chin. "As you my friend, already know. Are you sure, Marek, that you want to take this journey tomorrow? You are welcome to stay. You will be in relative safety here— at least for a time, I believe."
"I'm afraid I must," Marek replied. "I thank you for the offer, but I cannot leave the bodies of my brethren unattended. I must see that they are laid to rest properly, if I can. And the High Priest at Eagle's Crest must know what has happened— if Jarren and Tia'ialla are still willing to accompany me." The tall man and the Roa'an rider both nodded, and Tia placed a hand on Marek's shoulder.
"You are very brave, Marek," she said. "I would be honored to travel with you."
"Strange," Marek said shakily. "I certainly do not feel very brave."
"Courage and bravery, my friend Marek," said Jarren as he placed a hand on each of the priest's shoulders, "is not a lack of fear. Rather, it is the will to do what you know must be done, regardless of the fear within." As Marek nodded his thanks with a smile, Jarren continued. "Now my friends, we must all get some rest. We leave at mid-morning tomorrow."
"That is odd," Tia said as the others were turning toward the prince's home. "A star... no... two stars, three rather, just disappeared. Look there," she said pointing through the canopy where they could see the constellation called the Sailor's Eye. They could all see the constellation clearly through a break in the canopy above. The constellation's pupil was there, but three of the six stars that made up the shape of the eye around it had clearly disappeared. There was no cloud cover. They all looked up, puzzlement upon their features looking at the stars, here, there, another disappeared as they watched. It seemed that quite a few of the constellations suddenly were missing at least one or two stars. "What do you suppose caused—" The loud, rapid blast of a horn suddenly sounded, and they looked around, unsure of its direction. Jarren drew his sword, his longbow left in Grea'oran's home, as he prepared to run down to the ground to defend against attack. Bowmen on the bridges and around the buildings above the ground peered downward with arrows nocked, ready to shoot at an unseen enemy. Soldiers down on the ground were already joining formations around the perimeter of the village. E'eldradin were running to and fro, preparing for an attack. Jarren was stopped by a strong hand on his arm. He turned to look into the silver eyes of Grea'oran who shook his head. He motioned to the ground below, where no enemy could be seen. Many of the elven soldiers below looked around and at each other in puzzlement as did the bowmen in the trees. A few soldiers traveled into the tree line with torches to appear a few moments later shaking their heads.
"I believe," the prince said, "what he have just heard, was the Horn of Gaulin, calling the Drayan to war.
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Drogan knocked over his chair in The White Swan, sloshing his ale all over himself and the counter, as he suddenly snapped to action at the sound of a loud horn's call to battle. Others had risen as well at the sound, puzzled and curious. They all began to look out of the windows, or move toward the door. Drogan's sword was wrapped with his pack, and he pulled it free as he stepped through the door and into the night air. The rain from earlier had stopped and the clouds had cleared away, and Drogan looked out toward the plains beyond. He was a soldier. He knew the call to battle well, yet there was nothing moving out on the plains, nothing but the people of Misting Hill walking out of their homes and looking about, wondering what the noise was or where it came from. The horn call seemed to have come from somewhere very close, although he was unsure of its direction.
"What do you suppose that was?" Rodrick asked, as he came to stand behind him.
"That was a call to battle," Drogan answered. "I see no one out on the plains however."
"Perhaps a child playing soldier?" Rodrick asked as he looked about for the mischievous culprit.
"Perhaps." Drogan said. He looked down at his sword. "Seems old habits are hard to break."
"Give it time," the big, bearded Halin said. The three of them stood out in the cool night air watching as others grew tired of looking about in wonderment, and returned into their homes or to the inn. "What do you make of that?" Halin asked. "Look there," he said pointing north to the Eye of the Sailor. "Stars missing." Drogan looked to the constellation, a grim look upon his face.
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Kendrick had just lay back down after drinking the warm broth Kieran had spoon fed him, when he heard what sounded like a horn blast. He knew it was not the sounds of the weather, it was something different. He rose to his feet, and Kieran sitting nearby protested.
"You should stay in bed, Kendrick!"
"I'm alright," he said as he stumbled to the door, and opened it to look out into the blizzard.
"It took this long to get you warm again and you're just going to stand there letting the cold in?"
"Did you hear that?" he asked the woman standing by him.
"Of course I heard it! Now come," she said and closed the door, leading Kendrick back toward the bed. "What do you suppose it was?" she asked in a softer tone.
"You ever hear of the Horn Of Gaulin?" he asked her as he lay back down.
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The great dragon raised its grey and white scaled head as the sound suddenly grew stronger, and he knew it to be the blast of a great horn. He knew it to be the Horn of Gaulin calling the Drayan to war. Across the valley he saw the black dragon raise to its full height, spreading its wings in anger and blowing a huge plume of fire into the sky, snaking its head back and forth and whipping its tail into the rocks and ground. It let out a sharp piercing cry and then made eye contact with the white.
"Soon we will face each other, you and I."
"Yes— but not today." The white dragon spread its wings wide, letting the air currents fill the leathery membranes before flapping them once, and then twice, to begin lifting its massive bulk off the ground and into the sky. He gave a sharp cry of his own and flew eastward. "The time has come to gather my brethren," he said as he rose into the clouds and out of sight as the big black roared its defiance toward him.
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Lord Belkarus heard the horn as well, as he sat upon his throne with his chin on his black gauntleted fist. He rose from his throne, walked across the room and out onto the balcony where he stood a moment, taking in the site of the army milling about far below. Looking to the sky above, he laughed in contempt at the heavens and then spoke."I know you come Drayan— to fight for your so called one true king. The prophecies say he will come, and that you will come as well. They do not, however, say you will win." He turned and re-entered his throne room to sit once again. "My people have infiltrated the temples and cities of those who follow your king. My master has helped me to lay down plans that will make your defeat inevitable. Come to war then Drayan— come to your final defeat."
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The next morning the sky was clear and the sun shined brightly, but a cold wind blew from the north. Drogan, with Halin beside him, stood outside surveying the old cottage with the forge built alongside. He could see some thatchings on the roof would need replaced and a window shutter or two would need repaired. Entering the cottage, there were some cobwebs in the corners and dust needing cleaned, but everything appeared as it had when last he had been there. The forge itself appeared in good order, and the great gated doors that swung outward to allow air in were well oiled and opened easily. All the tools, anvils, gloves and thick leather aprons were all kept as his father liked them, hanging on one wall, and there was plenty of wood stacked along another wall. He grabbed a wooden ladder and climbed to get a closer look at the roof thatchings when he heard the sound of hooves approaching. He turned to watch twenty mounted men, wearing the typical battle dress of Grey Home, fast approaching. "I wonder what this is about," he said as he climbed down the ladder to stand beside Halin. The soldiers rode up the hill, passed the two men, and continued to the small wooden temple on the far side of the village. "I want to see what's going on," Drogan said, and began walking toward the temple and riders, with Halin following him. As they neared the building, two men dismounted and walked into the temple, roughly pulling the priest out with them a moment later. More people began walking toward the temple as well, and Drogan, and Halin were joined by Rodrick with his daughter, Annyaa following close behind with a mug in one hand and a towel in the other.
"What's going on here, Drogan?" Rodrick asked.
"Your guess is as good as mine, Rodrick," he answered. As they came upon the mounted soldiers, Drogan was shocked to see Andorin riding with them. The tall, dark haired warrior looked down at Drogan and a moment of surprise shone in his eyes. "Andorin, what is going on here?"
"The Duke has ordered that all priests of Jandrous be arrested and imprisoned. We have orders to travel here and to another village north of Grey Home to do just that."
"This is outrageous, Andorin. Why would he do such a thing? It makes no sense!"
"I didn't realize you were a follower of Jandrous, Drogan." Andorin said with contempt.
Drogan was fighting to control his temper. This was wrong. As far as he knew, Duke Nordhelm himself was a devout follower of Jandrous. He had often heard him quote from The Teachings to his soldiers before they marched. "I'm not. But that doesn't matter at the moment— this however does."
"Drogan—" Andorin rolled his eyes back. "Do I really have to explain everything to you? And do you really think it's going to help? I have my orders, now stand aside!" He ordered the two men holding the priest to bind his arms and legs and to hoist him atop one of the horses. The people of the village were beginning to loudly protest, and the riders formed a line in front of them to hold them at bay.
"Now just a minute!" The priest yelled as he struggled. "I have done nothing wrong!"
"Now hear this!" Andorin called out so all could hear him. "All priests in the lands under Duke Nordhelm's rule have been labeled heretics and liars! All will be hunted down and arrested!" Those who harbor them shall be arrested as well— or worse!" he added. "If you know what is best, you will all stand aside and return to your homes!"
"Let Borian go!" Annyaa called out. "He has done nothing!" As the priest struggled to break free of the men holding him, she suddenly rushed forward to his aid as Rodrick yelled for her to stop. One of the soldiers backhanded her hard across the face and she fell back heavily. Drogan gritted his teeth angrily.
"There was no reason for that!" he yelled, and was rushing to her side to help her to her feet when another soldier rode quickly beside him, and hit him with the heavy pommel of his sword in the back of the head. Drogan fell to the ground as everything went black.
"Burn the temple to the ground!" He heard Andorin order before he lost consciousness.
©Anthony David Rosenthal/To The Valley Of Dragons 2010
