PROLOGUE
For long and long Hircine had sat upon his throne of ice deep in the cave that was sometimes in the frozen north of the Mundus and sometimes…elsewhere. The Great Hunt, which had entertained him in the past, seemed dull now, and so his mind- crooked and branched like the antlers on his helm- turned to a new entertainment. He cast his thoughts out into the world that was and into all the worlds that might have been or might yet still be. And from each of those worlds he plucked an image, an idea, an avatar. From each he chose a hero or heroine whose feats had or would someday make them legendary. Satisfied with his choices at last, Hircine sent forth his werewolf minions to fetch forth the players, the victims for his newest game. Regardless of their abilities martial or magical, they were plucked from where they slumbered or labored or fought, unable to resist or even truly comprehend what was happening. For Hircine, in his power, lifted them out of the stream of Time and brought them to a place that was not a place, but merely a creation of his fevered imagining. With a thought and a word, he conjured a great amphitheater of ice, surrounded by benches for the unwilling spectators. Another word, and he set the ones he had chosen upon the benches, able to see and hear everything, but unable to act until he willed it so. Satisfied, he pointed at two of the figures and made a lifting motion. With his gesture, the two were brought into the arena and accoutered in their favored armor and weaponry. Hircine smiled and spoke a single word more- “BEGIN.”
--------------------
The dreams down here aren't broken, nah, they're walkin' with a limp...
The best-dressed newt in Mournhold.
|