Light flurries of snow fall and stick in patches along the frozen ground. In the west, the sun dips below the horizon, leaving behind the graying twilight of dusk. Night is fast approaching. As every moment of light fades from the sky, the window of opportunity for capturing the renegade elf grows smaller.
We are at his mercy, Tymel Greyhammer observes to himself. Like a lion stalking its prey, he is leading us along. The hour of our meeting will be of his own choosing.
The visage of death has stalked the homes of the small village of Conyberry. Riding on the tip of an elven blade, it has come to carry these souls to the planes beyond. The elf knows the only thing that stands between he and freedom are the lives of these poor villagers. By his blade he would butcher every one of them indiscriminately, but knowing the one weakness his pursuers possess is their inability to watch innocents suffer, he will use them as a shield for his own purposes.
Tymel closes his eyes and whispers, “Mighty Tyr, great lord of justice, I come to you in this hour to ask that you empower us. Strengthen our minds so we may see our enemies’ move. Bless our blades and let them find their mark. Let us bring justice for those who have fallen at the hands of this murderer.”
The flurries of snow continue their slow drift from the sky. The light continues to fade and the sands of the hourglass trickle away with it. Time is running out.